GRAY  DAYS  A N D 
GOLD 


WILLIAM  WINTER 


'I 


l 


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in  2016 


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GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 


SHAKESPEARE’S  ENGLAND. 

In  one  vol.  32mo.  Is. 

WANDERERS. 

In  one  vol.  32mo.  Is. 


Edinburgh  : David  Douglas. 


GRAY  DAYS  AND 


GOLD 


1JY 

WILLIAM  WINTER 

author  of  “shakespeare's  England” 
“wanderers,”  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

MACMILLAN  & CO. 

1892 


Copyright 

1890 

By  WILLIAM  WINTER 


r\i 

ok 

^5 


TO 


AUGUSTIN  DALY, 

REMEMBERING  A FRIENDSHIP 
OF  MANY  YEARS, 


I DEDICATE  THIS  BOOK. 


V 

u Est  animus  till 
Rerumqm  prudens , et  secundis 

Temporibus  dubiisque  rectus 

' 


t- 

Vv, 


ov 


fp- 


‘ ‘ Whatever  withdraws  us  from  the  power  of 
our  senses,  whatever  makes  the  past,  the  distant, 
or  the  future  predominate  over  the  present , ad- 
vances us  in  the  dignity  of  thinking  beings.  . . . 
A ll  travel  has  its  advantages.  If  the  passenger 
visits  better  countries  he  may  learn  to  improve 
his  own,  and  if  fortune  carries  him  to  worse 
he  may  learn  to  enjoy  it” — Dr.  Johnson. 


“ There  is  given, 

Unto  the  things  of  earth  which  Time  hath  bent, 
A spirit's  feeling  ; and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is  a power 
And  magic  in  the  ruined  battlement, 

For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp , and  wait  till  ages  are  its 
dower.” 


Byron. 


PREFACE. 


This  book,  which  is  intended  as  a com- 
panion to  “ Shakespeare’s  England,”  relates 
to  the  gray  days  of  an  American  wanderer 
in  the  British  Islands,  and  to  the  gold  of 
thought  and  fancy  that  can  be  found  there . 
In  “Shakespeare’s  England”  an  attempt 
was  made  to  depict,  in  an  unconventional 
manner,  those  lovely  scenes  which  are  for  ever 
intertwined  with  the  name  and.  the  memory  of 
o Shakespeare,  and  also  to  reflect  the  spirit  of 
that  English  scenery  in  general  which,  to  an 
imaginative  mind,  must  always  be  venerable 
with  historic  antiquity  and  tenderly  hal- 
lowed with  poetic  and  romantic  association. 
The  present  book  continues  the  same  treat- 
ment of  kindred  themes, — referring  not  only 
to  the  land  of  Shakespeare  but  to  the  land  of 

7 


Vlll 


PREFACE. 


Burns  and  Scott.  After  so  muck  had  been 
done , and  superbly  done , by  Washington 
Irving  and  by  other  authors , to  celebrate  the 
beauties  of  our  ancestral  home , it  was  perhaps 
an  act  of  presumption  on  the  part  of  the  pre- 
sent writer  to  touch  those  subjects.  He  can 
only  plead , in  extenuation  of  his  boldness,  an 
irresistible  impulse  of  reverence  and  affection 
for  them.  His  presentment  of  them  can  give 
no  offence , and  perhaps  it  may  be  found  suffi- 
ciently sympathetic  and  diversified  to  awalcen 
and  sustain  at  least  a momentary  interest  in 
the  minds  of  those  readers  who  love  to  muse 
and  dream  over  the  relics  of  a storied  past. 
If  by  happy  fortune  it  should  do  more  than 
that , — if  it  should  help  to  impress  his  country \ 
men,  so  many  of  whom  annually  travel  v j 
Britain,  with  the  superlative  importance  of 
adorning  the  physical  aspect  and  of  refining 
the  material  civilisation  of  America  by  a re- 
production within  its  borders  of  whatever  is 
valuable  in  the  long  experience  and  whatever 
is  noble  and  beautiful  in  the  domestic  and  reli- 
gious spirit  of  the  British  Islands, — his  labour 
will  not  have  been  in  vain . The  supreme 


PREFACE. 


IX 


need  of  this  aye  in  America  is  a ; practical 
conviction  that  progress  does  not  consist  in 
material  prosperity  but  in  spiritual  advance- 
ment. U tility  has  long  been  exclusively  wor- 
shipped. The  welfare  of  the  future  lies  in 
the  worship  of  beauty.  To  that  ivorship  these 
pages  are  devoted,  with  all  that  it  implies  of 
sympathy  with  the  higher  instincts  and  faith 
in  the  divine  destiny  of  the  human  race. 

Most  of  the  sketches  here  assembled  were 
originally  printed  in  the  “New  York 
Tribune,”  with  which  journal  their  author 
has  been  continuously  associated  as  a con- 
tributor since  1865.  They  have  been  revised 
for  publication  in  this  form.  Most  of  the 
paper  on  Sir  Walter  Scott  first  appeared  in 
“Harper’s  Weekly,”  for  which  periodical 
also  the  author  has  written  many  things.  The 
paper  on  the  Wordsworth  country  was  con- 
tributed to  the  “New  York  Mirror.”  Seve- 
ral poems,  of  recent  date,  are  added,  which 
may  find  favour  with  readers  who  have  ap- 
proved their  author's  companion  volume  of 
‘ ‘ W anderers.  ” The  alluring  field  of  Scottish 
antiquity  and  romance , which  he  has  dared 


PREFACE. 


but  Slightly  to  touch , may  perhaps  be  explored 
hereafter , for  treasures  of  contemplation  that 
earlier  seekers  have  left  ungathered . The 
author  would  state  that  several  months  after 
the  publication  of  his  book  called  “ Shake- 
speare’s England  ” he  was  told  that  there  is  in 
existence  a work , published  many  years  ago , 
bearing  a similar  title , though  relating  to 
a different  theme — the  state  of  England  in 
Shakespeare’s  time . He  had  never  heard  of 
it  and  has  never  seen  it.  The  fact  is  re- 
corded that  an  important  recent ' book  called 
“ Shakespeare’s  True  Life,”  written  by  James 
Walter , incorporates  into  its  text , without 
credit , several  passages  of  original  descrip- 
tion and  reflection  taken  from  the  present 
writer’s  sketches  of  the  Shakespeare  country , 
and  also  quotes , as  his  work , an  elaborate 
narrative  of  a nocturnal  visit  to  Anne  Hatha- 
way’s cottage , which  he  never  wrote  and  never 
claimed  to  have  written.  This  statement  is 
made  as  a safeguard  against  future  injustice. 

W.  W. 

Fort  Hill,  New  Brighton, 

Staten  Island,  New  York, 

December  19,  1S90. 


CONTENTS. 


— ♦ — 

PAGE 

I.  CLASSIC  SHRINES,  ....  13 

II.  HAUNTED  GLENS  AND  HOUSES,  . . 25 

III.  OLD  YORK, 38 

IV.  THE  HAUNTS  OF  MOORE,  ...  53 

V.  BEAUTIFUL  BATH,  . . . . 70 

VI.  THE  LAKES  AND  FELLS  OF  WORDS- 
WORTH,   78 

VII.  SHAKESPEARE  RELICS  AT  WORCESTER,  96 

VIII.  BYRON  AND  HUCKNALL-TORKARD,  . 107 

IX.  HISTORIC  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS,  . 131 

X.  SHAKESPEARE’S  TOWN,  . . .140 

XI.  UP  AND  DOWN  THE  AVON,  . . 165 

XII.  RAMBLES  IN  ARDEN,  . . .173 

XIII.  THE  STRATFORD  FOUNTAIN,  . . 181 

XIV.  BOSWORTH  FIELD,  ...  193 

XV.  THE  HOME  OF  DR.  JOHNSON  . . 207 

XVI.  FROM  LONDON  TO  EDINBURGH,  . 222 


xii  CONTENTS 

PAGK 

XVII.  INTO  THE  HIGHLANDS,  . .231 

XVIII.  HIGHLAND  BEAUTIES,  . . .239 

XIX.  THE  HEART  OF  SCOTLAND,  . . 251 

XX.  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  . . .267 

XXI.  ELEGIAC  MEMORIALS,  . . . 294 

XXII.  SCOTTISH  PICTURES,  . .306 

XXIII.  IMPERIAL  RUINS,  ....  313 

XXIV.  THE  LAND  OF  MARMION,  . . 322 


AT  VESPER  TIME — 

THE  SHIP  THAT  SAILED,  . . 335 

ASHES, 337 

THE  PASSING  BELL  AT  STRATFORD,  . 338 

heaven’s  hour,  ....  339 

THE  STATUE, 340 

IN  MEMORY  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS,  . 344 

RAYMOND, 346 

D.  D.  L., 348 

SYMBOLS, 349 

honour’s  pearl,  ....  349 

THE  BROKEN  HARP,  . . . .351 

now, 352 

353 


UNWRITTEN  POEMS, 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


I. 


CLASSIC  SHRINES. 


ONDON,  June  29,  1888.  — The  poet 


Emerson’s  injunction,  “ Set  not  thy 
foot  on  graves,”  is  wise  and  right;  and 
being  in  merry  England  in  the  month  of 
June  it  certainly  is  your  own  fault  if  you 
do  not  fulfil  the  rest  of  the  philosophical 
commandment  and  ‘ ‘ Hear  what  wine  and 
roses  say.”  Yet  the  history  of  England  is 
largely  written  in  her  ancient  churches  and 
crumbling  ruins,  and  the  pilgrim  to  historic 
and  literary  shrines  in  this  country  will 
find  it  difficult  to  avoid  setting  his  foot  on 
graves.  It  is  possible  here,  as  elsewhere,  to 
live  entirely  in  the  present ; but  to  certain 
temperaments  and  in  certain  moods  the 
temptation  is  irresistible  to  live  mostly  in 
the  past.  I write  these  words  in  a house 


13 


14  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

that  once  was  occupied  by  Nell  Gwyn,  and 
as  I glance  into  the  garden  I see  a venerable 
acacia  that  was  planted  by  her  own  fair 
hands,  in  the  far-off  time  of  the  Merry 
Monarch.  Within  a few  days  I have  stood 
in  the  dungeon  of  Guy  Fawkes,  in  the 
Tower,  and  sat  at  luncheon  in  a manor- 
house  of  Warwickshire,  wherein  were  once 
convened  the  conspirators  of  the  Gun- 
powder Plot.  The  newspapers  of  this 
morning  announce  that  a monument  will 
be  dedicated  on  July  19  to  commemorate 
the  defeat  of  the  Spanish  Armada,  three 
hundred  years  ago.  Surely  it  is  not  un- 
natural that  some  of  us  should  live  in  the 
past,  and  often  should  find  ourselves  musing 
over  its  legacies. 

One  of  the  most  sacred  spots  in  England 
is  the  churchyard  of  Stoke-Pogis.  I re- 
visited that  place  on  June  13,  and  once 
again  rambled  and  meditated  in  that  hal- 
lowed place.  Not  many  months  ago  it 
seemed  likely  that  Stoke  Park  would  pass 
into  the  possession  of  a sporting  ring,  and  be 
turned  into  a racecourse  and  kennel.  A 
track  had  already  been  laid  there.  Fate 
was  kind,  however,  and  averted  the  final 
disaster.  Only  a few  changes  are  to  be 
noted  in  that  part  of  the  Park  which  to 


CLASSIC  SHRINES  15 

the  reverent  pilgrim  must  always  be  the 
dearest.  The  churchyard  has  been  length- 
ened a little  in  front,  and  a solid,  shapely 
wall  of  flint,  pierced  by  an  oak  porch,  richly 
carved,  has  replaced  the  plain  fence,  with 
its  simple  turnstile,  that  formerly  enclosed 
this  rural  cemetery.  The  additional  land 
was  given  by  the  new  proprietor  of  Stoke 
Park,  who  wished  that  his  own  burial-vault 
might  be  made  in  it ; and  this  has  been 
built  beneath  a large  tree  not  far  from  the 
entrance.  The  avenue  from  the  gate  to  the 
church  has  been  widened,  and  is  now  fringed 
with  thin  lines  of  twisted  stone,  and  where 
once  stood  only  two  or  three  rose-trees  there 
are  now  sixty-two — set  in  lines  on  either 
side  of  the  path.  But  the  older  part  of  the 
graveyard  remains  unchanged.  The  yew- 
trees  cast  their  dense  shade  as  of  old.  The 
quaint  porch  of  the  sacred  building  has  not 
suffered  under  the  hand  of  restoration.  The 
ancient  wooden  memorials  of  the  dead  con- 
tinue to  moulder  above  their  ashes.  And 
still  the  abundant  ivy  gleams  and  trembles 
in  the  sunshine  and  in  the  summer  wind 
that  plays  so  sweetly  over  the  spired  tower 
and  dusky  walls  of  this  lovely  temple — 
“All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without, 

But  worn  and  gray  beneath.” 


i6 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


It  would  still  be  a lovely  church,  even  if 
it  were  not  associated  with  the  great  name 
of  the  author  of  the  immortal  Elegy.  I 
stood  for  a long  time  beside  the  tomb  of 
that  noble  and  tender  poet,  and  looked  with 
deep  emotion  on  the  surrounding  scene  of 
pensive,  dream-like  beauty — the  great  elms, 
so  dense  of  foliage,  so  stately  and  graceful  ; 
the  fields  of  deep,  waving  grass,  golden 
with  buttercups  and  white  with  daisies  ; 
the  many  unmarked  mounds ; the  many 
mouldering  tombstones  ; the  rooks  sailing 
and  cawing  around  the  tree- tops  ; and  over 
all  the  blue  sky  flecked  with  floating  fleece. 
Within  the  church  nothing  has  been  changed. 
The  memorial  window  to  Gray,  for  which 
contributions  have  been  taken  during  seve- 
ral years,  has  not  yet  been  placed.  As  I 
cast  a farewell  look  at  Gray’s  tomb,  on 
turning  to  leave  the  churchyard,  it  rejoiced 
my  heart  to  see  that  two  American  ladies, 
who  had  then  just  come  in,  were  placing 
fresh  flowers  over  the  poet’s  dust.  He  has 
been  buried  more  than  a hundred  years — 
but  his  memory  is  as  bright  and  green  as 
the  ivy  on  the  tower  within  whose  shadow 
lie  sleeps,  and  as  fragrant  as  the  roses  that 
bloom  at  its  base.  Many  Americans  visit 
Stoke-Pogis  churchyard,  and  surely  no 


CLASSIC  SHRINES. 


17 


visitor  to  the  old  world,  who  knows  how  to 
value  what  is  best  in  its  treasures,  will  omit 
this  act  of  reverence.  The  journey  is  an 
easy  one  to  make.  A brief  run  by  railway 
from  Paddington  takes  you  to  Slough, 
which  is  near  to  Windsor,  and  thence  it  is  a 
charming  drive,  or  a still  more  charming 
walk,  mostly  through  green,  embowered 
lanes,  to  the  “ ivy-mantled  tower,”  the 
“yew-trees’  shade,”  and  the  simple  tomb 
of  Gray.  What  a gap  there  would  be  in 
the  poetry  of  our  language  if  the  “ Elegy 
in  a Country  Churchyard  ” were  absent 
from  it ! By  that  sublime  and  tender 
reverie  upon  the  most  important  of  all  sub- 
jects that  can  engage  the  attention  of  the 
human  mind  Thomas  Gray  became  one  of 
the  chief  benefactors  of  his  race.  Those 
lines  have  been  murmured  by  the  lips  of 
sorrowing  affection  beside  many  a shrine  of 
buried  love  and  hope,  in  many  a church- 
yard all  round  the  world.  The  sick  have 
remembered  them  with  comfort.  The  great 
soldier,  going  into  battle,  has  said  them  for 
his  solace  and  cheer.  The  dying  statesman, 
closing  his  weary  eyes  upon  this  empty 
world,  has  spoken  them  with  his  last  falter- 
ing accents,  and  fallen  asleep  with  their 
heavenly  music  in  his  heart.  Well  may  we 

B 


i8 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


pause  and  ponder  at  the  grave  of  this  divine 
poet ! Every  noble  mind  is  made  nobler, 
every  good  heart  is  made  better,  for  the  ex- 
perience of  such  a pilgrimage.  In  such 
places  as  these  pride  is  rebuked,  vanity  is 
dispelled,  and  the  revolt  of  the  passionate 
human  heart  is  humbled  into  meekness  and 
submission. 

There  is  a place  kindred  with  Stoke-Pogis 
churchyard,  a place  destined  to  become, 
after  a few  years,  as  famous  and  as  dear  to 
the  heart  of  the  reverent  pilgrim  in  the 
footsteps  of  genius  and  pure  renown.  On 
Sunday  afternoon  (June  17)  I sat  for  a long 
time  beside  the  grave  of  Matthew  Arnold. 
It  is  in  a little  churchyard  at  Laleham  in 
Surrey,  where  he  was  born.  The  day  was 
chill,  sombre,  and,  except  for  an  occasional 
low  twitter  of  birds  and  the  melancholy 
cawing  of  distant  rooks,  soundless  and 
sadly  calm.  So  dark  a sky  might  mean 
November  rather  than  June ; but  it  fitted 
well  with  the  scene  and  with  the  pensive 
thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  hour.  Lale- 
ham is  a village  on  the  south  bank  of  the 
Thames,  about  thirty  miles  from  London, 
and  nearly  midway  between  Staines  and 
Chertsey.  It  consists  of  a few  devious  lanes 
and  a cluster  of  houses,  shaded  with  large 


CLASSIC  SHRINES. 


19 


trees,  and  everywhere  made  beautiful  with 
flowers,  and  it  is  one  of  those  fortunate  and 
happy  places  to  which  access  cannot  be  ob- 
tained by  railway.  There  is  a great  house 
in  the  centre  of  it,  secluded  in  a walled 
garden,  fronting  the  square  immediately 
opposite  to  the  village  church.  The  rest 
of  the  houses  are  mostly  cottages  made  of 
red  brick  and  roofed  with  red  tiles.  Ivy 
flourishes,  and  many  of  the  cottages  are 
overrun  with  climbing  roses.  Roman  relics 
are  found  in  the  neighbourhood — a camp 
near  the  ford,  and  other  indications  of  the 
military  activity  of  Caesar.  The  church, 
All  Saints’,  is  of  great  antiquity.  It  has 
been  in  part  restored,  but  its  venerable  as- 
pect is  not  impaired.  The  large  low  tower 
is  of  brick,  and  this  and  the  church  walls 
are  thickly  covered  with  glistening  ivy.  A 
double-peaked  roof  of  red  tiles,  sunken  here 
and  there,  contributes  to  the  picturesque 
beauty  of  this  building,  and  its  charm  is 
further  heightened  by  the  contiguity  of 
large  trees,  in  which  the  old  church  seems 
to  nestle.  Within  there  are  low,  massive 
pillars,  and  plain,  symmetrical  arches — the 
remains  of  Norman  architecture.  Great 
rafters  of  dark  oak  augment  in  this  quaint 
structure  the  air  of  solidity  and  of  an  age 


20 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


at  once  venerable  and  romantic,  while  a 
bold,  spirited,  beautiful  painting  of  Christ 
and  Peter  upon  the  sea  imparts  to  it  an  ad- 
ditional sentiment  of  sanctity  and  solemn 
pomp.  This  remarkable  work  is  by  Harlow, 
and  it  is  placed  back  of  the  altar,  where 
once  there  would  have  been,  in  the  Gothic 
days,  a stained  window.  The  explorer  does 
not  often  come  upon  such  a gem  of  a church 
even  in  England — so  rich  in  remains  of  the 
old  Catholic  zeal  and  devotion ; remains 
now  mostly  converted  to  the  use  of  Protes- 
tant worship. 

The  churchyard  of  All  Saints’  is  worthy 
of  the  church — a little  enclosure,  irregular 
in  shape,  surface,  shrubbery,  and  tomb- 
stones, bordered  on  two  sides  by  the  village 
square,  and  on  one  by  a farmyard,  and 
shaded  by  many  trees,  some  of  them  yews, 
and  some  of  great  size.  Almost  every  house 
that  is  visible  near  by  is  bowered  with  trees 
and  adorned  with  flowers.  No  person  was 
anywhere  to  be  seen,  and  it  was  only  after 
inquiry  at  various  dwellings  that  the  sex- 
ton’s abode  could  be  discovered  and  access 
to  the  church  obtained.  The  poet’s  grave  is 
not  within  the  church,  but  in  a secluded  spot 
at  the  side  of  it,  a little  removed  from  the 
highway,  and  screened  from  immediate  view 


CLASSIC  SHRINES. 


21 


by  an  ancient  dusky  yew-tree.  I readily 
found  it,  perceiving  a large  wreath  of  roses 
and  a bunch  of  white  flowers  that  were  lying 
upon  it, — recent  offerings  of  tender  remem- 
brance and  sorrowing  love,  but  already 
beginning  to  wither.  A small  square  of 
turf,  bordered  with  white  marble,  covers 
the  tomb  of  the  poet  and  of  three  of  his  chil- 
dren.1 At  the  head  are  three  crosses  of 
white  marble,  alike  in  shape  and  equal  in 
size,  except  that  the  first  is  set  upon  a 
pedestal  a little  lower  than  those  of  the 
others.  On  the  first  cross  is  written  : “ Basil 
Frances  Arnold,  youngest  child  of  Matthew 
and  Frances  Lucy  Arnold.  Born  August  19, 
1866.  Died  January  4,  1868.  Suffer  little 
children  to  come  unto  me.”  On  the  second  : 
“Thomas  Arnold,  eldest  child  of  Matthew 
and  Frances  Lucy  Arnold.  Born  July  6, 
1852.  Died  November  23,  1868.  Awake, 
thou,  Lute  and  Harp  ! I will  awake  right 
early.”  On  the  third  : “ Trevener  William 

1 Since  these  word's  were  written  a plain  headstone 
of  white  marble  has  been  placed  on  this  spot,  bearing 
the  following  inscription  : — 

“Matthew  Arnold,  eldest  son  of  the  late  Thomas 
Arnold,  D.D.,  Head  Master  of  Rugby  School.  Born 
December  24,  1822.  Died  April  15,  1888.  ‘There 
is  sprung  up  a light  for  the  righteous,  and  joyful 
gladness  for  such  as  are  true-hearted.’  ” 


22 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


Arnold,  second  child  of  Matthew  and 
Frances  Lucy  Arnold.  Born  October  15, 
1853.  Died  February  16,  1872.  In  the 
morning  it  is  green  and  groweth  up.”  Near 
by  are  other  tombstones  bearing  the  name 
of  Arnold — the  dates  inscribed  on  them 
referring  to  about  the  beginning  of  this 
century.  These  mark  the  resting-place  of 
some  of  the  poet’s  kindred.  His  father, 
the  famous  Dr.  Arnold  of  Rugby,  rests  in 
Rugby  Chapel — that  noble  father,  that  true 
iriend  and  servant  of  humanity,  of  whom 
the  son  wrote  those  memorable  words  of 
imperishable  nobility  and  meaning,  “Thou, 
my  father,  wouldst  not  be  saved  alone.” 
Matthew  Arnold  himself  is  buried  in  the 
same  grave  with  his  eldest  son,  and  side  by 
side  with  his  little  children.  He  who  was 
himself  as  a little  child  in  his  innocence, 
goodness,  and  truth,  where  else  and  how 
else  could  he  so  fitly  rest?  “Awake,  thou, 
Lute  and  Harp  ! I will  awake  right  early.” 
Every  man  will  think  his  own  thoughts 
in  such  a place  as  this  ; will  reflect  upon  his 
own  afflictions,  and  from  knowledge  of  the 
manner  and  spirit  in  which  kindred  griefs 
have  been  borne  by  the  great  heart  of  intel- 
lect and  genius  will  seek  to  gather  strength 
and  patience  to  endure  them  well.  Matthew 


CLASSIC  SHRINES. 


2 


Arnold  taught  many  lessons  of  immense 
value  to  those  who  are  able  to  think.  He 
did  not  believe  that  happiness  is  the  destiny 
of  the  human  race  on  earth,  or  that  there  is 
a visible  ground  for  assuming  that  happi- 
ness in  this  mortal  condition  is  one  of  the 
inherent  rights  of  humanity.  He  did  not 
think  that  this  world  is  made  an  abode  of 
delight  by  the  mere  jocular  affirmation  that 
everything  in  it  is  well  and  lovely.  He 
knew  better  than  that.  But  his  message, 
delivered  in  poetic  strains  that  will  endure 
as  long  as  our  language  exists,  is  the  mes- 
sage, not  of  gloom  and  despair,  but  of  spiri- 
tual purity  and  sweet  and  gentle  patience. 
The  man  who  heeds  Matthew  Arnold’s 
teaching  will  put  no  trust  in  creeds  and 
superstitions,  will  place  no  reliance  upon 
the  cobweb  structures  of  theology,  will  take 
no  guidance  from  the  animal  and  unthinking 
multitude;  but  he  will  “keep  the  whiteness 
of  his  soul  ” ; he  will  be  simple,  unselfish, 
and  sweet ; he  will  live  for  the  spirit  and 
not  the  flesh ; and  in  that  spirit,  pure, 
tender,  fearless,  strong  to  bear  and  patient 
to  suffer,  he  will  find  composure  to  meet  the 
inevitable  disasters  of  life  and  the  awful 
mystery  of  death.  Such  was  the  burden  of 
my  thought,  sitting  there,  in  the  gloaming, 


24 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


beside  the  lifeless  dust  of  him  whose  hand 
had  once,  with  kindly  greeting,  been  clasped 
in  mine.  And  such  will  be  the  thought  of 
many  and  many  a pilgrim  who  shall  stand 
in  that  sacred  place,  on  many  a summer 
evening  of  the  long  future — 

“ While  the  stars  come  out  and  the  night  wind 
Brings,  up  the  stream, 

Murmurs  and  scents  of  the  infinite  sea.” 


II. 


HAUNTED  GLENS  AND  HOUSES, 


ARWICK,  July  6,  1888.— One  night 


about  fifty  years  ago  a brutal  murder 
was  done  at  a lonely  place  on  the  highroad 
between  Hampton  Lucy  and  Stratford-upon- 
Avon.  The  next  morning  the  murdered  man 
was  found  lying  by  the  roadside,  his  mangled 
head  resting  in  a small  hole.  The  assassins, 
two  in  number,  were  shortly  afterward 
discovered,  and  they  were  hanged  at  War- 
wick. From  that  day  to  this  the  hole  where- 
in the  dead  man’s  head  reposed  remains  un- 
changed. No  matter  how  often  it  may  be 
filled,  whether  by  the  wash  of  heavy  rains 
or  by  stones  and  leaves  that  wayfarers  may 
happen  to  cast  into  it  as  they  pass,  it  is 
soon  found  to  be  again  empty.  No  one 
takes  care  of  it.  No  one  knows  whether 
or  by  whom  it  is  guarded.  Fill  it  at  night- 
fall and  you  will  find  it  empty  in  the  morn- 
ing. That  is  the  local  belief  and  affirma- 


25 


2b 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


tion.  This  spot  is  about  two  miles  north 
of  Stratford,  and  not  distant  from  the  gates 
of  Charlcote  Park.  I looked  at  this  hole 
one  bright  day  in  June  and  saw  that  it  was 
empty.  Nature,  it  is  thought  by  the  poets, 
abhors  complicity  with  the  concealment  of 
crime,  and  brands  with  her  curse  the  places 
that  are  linked  with  the  shedding  of  blood. 
Hence  that  strong  line  in  Tom  Hood’s 
poem  of  “ Eugene  Aram  ” — “ And  a mighty 
wind  had  swept  the  leaves,  and  still  the 
corse  was  bare.” 

There  are  many  haunted  spots  in  War- 
wickshire. The  benighted  peasant  never 
lingers  on  Ganerslie  Heath — for  there,  at 
midnight,  dismal  bells  have  been  heard  to 
toll  from  Blacklow  Hill,  the  place  where 
Sir  Piers  Gaveston,  the  corrupt,  handsome, 
foreign  favourite  of  King  Edward  the  Second, 
was  beheaded,  by  order  of  the  grim  barons 
whom  he  had  insulted  and  opposed.  The 
Earl  of  Warwick  led  them,  whom  Gaveston 
had  called  the  Black  Dog  of  Arden.  This 
was  long  ago.  Everybody  knows  the  his- 
toric incident,  but  no  one  can  so  completely 
realise  it  as  when  standing  on  the  place. 
The  scene  of  the  execution  is  marked  by  a 
simple  cross,  bearing  this  inscription  : “In 
the  hollow  of  this  rock  was  beheaded,  on 


HAUNTED  GLENS  AND  HOUSES.  27 

the  first  day  of  July  1312,  by  Barons  law- 
less as  himself,  Piers  Gaveston,  Earl  of 
Cornwall.  In  life  and  death  a memorable 
instance  of  misrule.”  No  doubt  the  birds 
were  singing  and  the  green  branches  of  the 
trees  were  waving  in  the  summer  wind 
on  that  fatal  day,  just  as  they  are  at  this 
moment.  Gaveston  was  a man  of  great 
personal  beauty  and  some  talent,  and  only 
twenty-nine  years  old.  It  was  a melan- 
choly sacrifice,  and  horrible  in  the  circum- 
stances that  attended  it.  No  wonder  that 
doleful  thoughts  and  blood-curdling  sounds 
should  come  to  such  as  walk  on  Ganerslie 
Heath  in  the  lonely  hours  of  the  night. 

Another  haunted  place  is  Clopton  — 
haunted  certainly  with  memories  if  not 
with  ghosts.  In  the  reign  of  Henry  vn. 
this  was  the  manor  of  Sir  Hugh  Clopton, 
Lord  Mayor  of  London,  he  who  built  the 
bridge  over  the  Avon — across  which,  many 
a time,  William  Shakespeare  must  have 
ridden  on  his  way  to  Oxford  and  the  capi- 
tal. The  dust  of  Sir  Hugh  Clopton  rests 
in  Stratford  Church,  and  his  mansion  has 
passed  through  many  hands.  In  our  time 
it  is  the  residence  of  Sir  Arthur  Hodgson, 
by  whom  it  was  purchased  in  1871.  It  was 
my  privilege  to  see  Clopton  under  the  guid- 


28 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


ance  of  its  lord,  and  a charming  and  impres- 
sive old  house  it  is — full  of  quaint  objects 
and  fraught  with  singular  associations.  They 
show  you  there,  among  many  fine  paintings, 
the  portrait  of  a wild -eyed  lady  with  thin 
figure,  delicate  features,  long  light  hair, 
and  sensitive  countenance,  who  in  the  far- 
off  Tudor  time  drowned  herself  in  a dismal 
black  well,  back  of  the  mansion — one  of  the 
many  victims,  doubtless,  of  unhappy  love. 
And  they  show  you  the  portrait  of  still  an- 
other Clopton  girl,  of  ancient  times,  who  is 
thought  to  have  been  accidentally  buried 
alive  — because  when  it  chanced  that  the 
family  tomb  was  opened,  a few  days  after 
her  interment,  the  corpse  was  found  to  be 
turned  over  in  its  coffin  and  to  present  in- 
dications that  the  wretched  victim  of  pre- 
mature burial  had,  in  her  agonised  frenzy, 
gnawed  her  own  flesh. 

It  is  the  blood-stained  corridor  of  Clop- 
ton, however,  that  most  impresses  imagina- 
tion. This  is  at  the  top  of  the  house,  and 
access  to  it  is  gained  by  a winding  stair  of 
oak  boards,  uncarpeted,  solid,  simple,  and 
consonant  with  the  times  and  manners  that 
it  represents.  Many  years  ago,  it  is  said, 
a man  was  murdered  in  a little  bedroom 
near  the  top  of  this  staircase,  and  his  body 


HAUNTED  GLENS  AND  HOUSES.  29 

was  dragged  along  the  corridor  to  be 
secreted.  A thin  dark  stain,  seemingly  a 
streak  of  blood,  runs  from  the  door  of  that 
bedroom  in  the  direction  of  the  stairhead, 
and  this  is  so  deeply  imprinted  in  the  wood 
that  it  cannot  be  eradicated.  Opening  from 
this  corridor,  opposite  to  the  murder-room, 
is  an  odd  apartment,  which  in  the  remote 
days  o£  a Catholic  occupant  was  used  as  an 
oratory.1  In  the  early  part  of  the  reign  of 
Henry  vi.  John  Carpenter  obtained  from  the 
Bishop  of  Worcester  permission  to  establish 
this  chapel.  In  1885  the  walls  of  this 
chamber  were  committed  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  a paper-hanger,  who  presently 
discovered  on  them  several  inscriptions  in 
black  letter,  and  who  fortunately  mentioned 
his  discoveries  before  they  were  obliter- 
ated. Richard  Savage,  the  antiquary,  was 
called  to  examine  them,  and  by  him  they 
were  restored.  The  effect  of  these  little 
patches  of  letters — isles  of  significance  in 
a barren  sea  of  wall-paper — is  that  of  ex- 
treme singularity.  Most  of  them  are  sen- 
tences from  the  Bible.  All  of  them  are 
devout.  One  imparts  the  solemn  injunc- 

l An  entry  in  the  Diocesan  Register  of  Worcester 
states  that  in  1374  John  Clopton  of  Stretforde  ob- 
tained letters  dimissory  to  the  order  of  priest. 


30  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

tion  : “ Whether  you  rise  y early e or  goe 
to  bed  late,  Remember  Christ  Jesus  who 
died  for  your  sake.”  [This  may  be  found 
in  John  Weever’s  Funeral  Monuments  : 
1631.]  Clopton  has  a long  and  various 
history.  One  of  the  most  significant  facts 
in  its  record  is  the  fact  that  for  about  ten 
months,  in  the  year  1605,  it  was  occupied 
by  Ambrose  Rokewood,  of  Coldham  Hall, 
Suffolk,  a breeder  of  race-horses,  whom 
Robert  Catesby  brought  into  the  ghastly 
Gunpowder  Plot,  in  the  reign  of  James 
I.  Hither  came  Sir  Everard  Digby,  and 
Tom  and  Robert  Winter,  and  the  spe- 
cious Jesuit,  Father  Garnet,  chief  hatcher 
of  the  conspiracy,  with  his  vile  train  of 
sentimental  fanatics,  on  that  pilgrimage  of 
sanctification  with  which  he  formally  pre- 
pared for  an  act  of  such  hideous  treachery 
and  wholesale  murder  as  only  a religious 
zealot  could  ever  have  conceived.  That 
may  have  been  a time  when  the  little  ora- 
tory of  Clopton  was  in  Catholic  use.  Not 
many  years  since  it  was  a bedroom  ; but 
one  of  Sir  Arthur  Hodgson’s  guests,  who 
undertook  to  sleep  in  it,  was  afterward 
heard  to  declare  that  he  wished  not  ever 
again  to  experience  the  hospitality  of  that 
chamber,  because  the  sounds  that  he  had 


HAUNTED  GLENS  AND  HOUSES.  3 1 

heard  all  around  the  place  throughout  that 
night  were  of  a most  infernal  description. 
A house  containing  many  rooms  and  stair- 
cases, a house  full  of  long  corridors  and 
winding  ways,  a house  so  large  that  you 
may  readily  get  lost  in  it — such  is  Clopton  ; 
and  it  stands  in  its  own  large  park,  removed 
from  other  buildings  and  bowered  in  trees. 
To  sit  in  the  great  hall  of  that  mansion  on 
a winter  midnight,  when  the  snow-laden 
wind  is  howling  around  it,  and  then  to 
think  of  the  bleak,  sinister  oratory,  and  the 
stealthy,  gliding  shapes  upstairs,  invisible 
to  mortal  eye,  but  felt,  with  a shuddering 
sense  of  some  unseen  presence  watching  in 
the  dark, — this  would  be  to  have  quite  a 
sufficient  experience  of  a haunted  house. 
Sir  Arthur  Hodgson  talked  of  the  legends 
of  Clopton  with  that  merry  twinkle  of  the 
eye  which  suits  well  with  kindly  incredu- 
lity. All  the  same  I thought  of  Milton’s 
lines — 

“ Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
U nseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep.  ” 

Warwickshire  swarmed  with  conspirators 
while  the  Gunpowder  Plot  was  in  progress. 
The  Lion  Inn  at  Dunchurch  was  the  chief 
tryst  of  the  captains  who  were  to  lead  their 


32  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLl/. 

forces  and  capture  the  Princess  Elizabeth 
and  seize  the  throne  and  the  country  after 
the  expected  explosion — which  never  came. 
And  when  the  game  was  up  and  Fawkes  in 
captivity,  it  was  through  Warwickshire  that 
the  ‘ 4 racing  and  chasing  ” was  fleetest  and 
wildest,  till  the  desperate  scramble  for  life 
and  safety  went  down  in  blood  at  Hewel 
Grange.  Various  houses  associated  with 
that  plot  are  still  extant  in  this  neighbour- 
hood, and  when  the  scene  shifts  to  London 
and  to  Garnet’s  Tyburn  gallows,  it  is  easily 
possible  for  the  patient  antiquarian  to  tread 
in  almost  every  footprint  of  that  great  con- 
spiracy. 

Since  Irish  ruffians  began  to  toss  dyna- 
mite about  in  public  buildings  it  has  been 
deemed  essential  to  take  especial  precaution 
against  the  danger  of  explosion  in  such 
places  as  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  West- 
minster Abbey,  and  the  Tower  of  London. 
Much  more  damage  than  the  newspapers 
recorded  was  done  by  the  explosions  that 
occurred  some  time  ago  in  the  Tower  and 
the  Palace.  At  present  you  cannot  enter 
even  into  Palace  Yard  unless  connected 
with  the  public  business  or  authorised  by 
an  order  ; and  if  you  visit  the  Tower  with- 
out a special  permit  you  will  be  restricted 


HAUNTED  GLENS  AND  HOUSES.  33 

to  a few  sights  and  places.  I was  fortu- 
nately the  bearer  of  the  card  of  the  Lord 
Chamberlain,  on  a recent  prowl  through 
the  Tower,  and  therefore  was  favoured  by 
the  beefeaters  who  pervade  that  structure. 
Those  damp  and  gloomy  dungeons  were 
displayed  wherein  so  many  Jews  perished 
miserably  in  the  reign  of  Edward  i. ; and 
“Little  Ease”  was  shown  — the  cell  in 
which  for  several  months  Guy  Fawkes  was 
incarcerated,  during  Cecil’s  wily  investiga- 
tion of  the  Gunpowder  Plot.  A part  of  the 
rear  wall  has  been  removed,  affording  access 
to  the  adjacent  dungeon ; but  originally 
the  cell  did  not  give  room  for  a man  to  lie 
down  in  it,  and  scarce  gave  room  for  him 
to  stand  upright.  The  massive  door,  of 
ribbed  and  iron-bound  oak,  still  solid  though 
worn,  would  make  an  impressive  picture. 
A poor,  stealthy  cat  was  crawling  about  in 
those  subterranean  dens  of  darkness  and 
horror,  and  was  left  locked  in  there  when 
we  emerged.  In  St.  Peter’s,  on  the  green — 
that  little  cemetery  so  eloquently  described 
by  Macaulay — they  came  some  time  ago 
upon  the  coffins  of  Lovat,  Kilmarnock,  and 
Balmerino,  the  Scotch  Lords  who  perished 
upon  the  block  for  their  complicity  with 
the  rising  for  Charles  Edward  Stuart,  the 
c 


34  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

Pretender,  in  1745-47.  The  coffins  were 
much  decayed.  The  plates  were  removed, 
and  these  may  now  be  viewed  in  a glass 
case  on  the  church  wall,  just  over  against 
the  spot  where  those  unfortunate  gentlemen 
were  buried.1  One  is  of  lead,  and  is  in  the 
form  of  a large  open  scroll.  The  other  two 
are  oval  in  shape,  large,  and  made  of 
pewter.  Much  royal  and  noble  dust  is 
heaped  together  beneath  the  stones  of  the 
chancel — Anne  Boleyn,  Catherine  Howard, 
Lady  Jane  Grey,  Margaret  Duchess  of 
Salisbury,  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  the 
Earl  of  Northumberland,  Essex,  Overbury, 
Thomas  Cromwell,  and  many  more.  The 
body  of  the  infamous  and  execrable  Jeffreys 
was  once  buried  there,  but  it  has  been 
removed. 

St.  Mary’s  Church  at  Warwick  has  been 
restored  since  1885,  and  now  it  is  made 
a show-place.  You  see  the  Beauchamp 
Chapel,  in  which  are  entombed  Thomas 
Beauchamp,  Earl  of  Warwick,  the  founder 
of  the  church  ; Robert  Dudley,  Earl  of 
Leicester,  in  whose  Latin  epitaph  it  is 
stated  that  “his  sorrowful  wife,  Laetitia, 

i The  remains  of  Lord  Lovat  were  removed  shortly 
after  his  death  and  buried  at  his  home  near  Inverness ; 
and  it  is  said  that  the  head  was  sewed  to  the  body. 


HAUNTED  GLENS  AND  HOUSES  35 

daughter  of  Francis  Knolles,  through  a 
sense  of  conjugal  love  and  fidelity,  hath  put 
up  this  monument  to  the  best  and  dearest 
of  husbands  ” ; Ambrose  Dudley,  elder 
brother  to  Elizabeth’s  favourite,  and  known 
as  the  Good  Earl  (he  relinquished  his  title 
and  possessions  to  Robert) ; and  that  Fulke 
Greville,  Lord  Brooke,  who  lives  in  fame 
as  “ the  friend  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney.”  There 
are  other  notable  sleepers  in  this  chapel, 
but  these  perhaps  are  the  most  famous  and 
considerable.  One  odd  epitaph  records  of 
William  Viner,  steward  to  Lord  Brooke, 
that  “he  was  a man  entirely  of  ancient 
manners,  and  to  whom  you  will  scarcely 
find  an  equal,  particularly  in  point  of  libera- 
lity. . . . He  was  added  to  the  number 
of  the  heavenly  inhabitants  maturely  for 
himself,  but  prematurely  for  his  friends,  in 
his  70th  year,  on  the  28th  of  April,  a.d. 
1639.”  Another,  placed  for  himself  by 
Thomas  Hewett  during  his  own  lifetime, 
modestly  describes  him  as  ‘ * a most  miser- 
able sinner.”  Sin  is  always  miserable  when 
it  knows  itself.  Still  another,  and  this  in 
good  verse,  by  Gervas  Clifton,  gives  a tender 
tribute  to  Lsetitia  ( ‘ * the  excellent  and  pious 
Lady  Lettice”),  Countess  of  Leicester,  who 
died  on  Christmas  morning  1634  : — 


36  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

“ She  that  in  her  younger  years 
Matched  with  two  great  English  peers  ; 

She  that  did  supply  the  wars 
With  thunder,  and  the  Court  with  stars  ; 
She  that  in  her  youth  had  been 
Darling  to  the  maiden  Queene, 

Till  she  was  content  to  quit 
Her  favor  for  her  favorite.  . . . 

While  she  lived  she  lived  thus, 

Till  that  God,  displeased  with  us, 

Suffered  her  at  last  to  fall, 

Not  from  Him,  but  from  us  all.” 

A noble  bust  of  that  fine  thinker  and 
exquisite  poet  Walter  Savage  Landor  has 
been  placed  on  the  west  wall  of  St.  Mary’s 
Church.  He  was  a native  of  Warwick,  and 
is  fitly  commemorated  in  that  place.  The 
bust  is  of  alabaster,  and  is  set  in  an  alabaster 
arch  with  carved  environment,  and  with  the 
family  arms  displayed  above.  The  head 
of  Landor  shows  great  intellectual  power, 
rugged  yet  gentle.  Coming  suddenly  upon 
the  bust,  in  this  church,  one  is  forcibly  and 
pleasantly  reminded  of  the  attribute  of  sweet 
and  gentle  reverence  in  the  English  char- 
acter which  so  invariably  expresses  itself, 
all  over  this  land,  in  honourable  memorials 
to  the  honourable  dead.  No  rambler  in 
Warwick  omits  to  explore  Leicester’s  Hos- 


HAUNTED  GLENS  AND  HOUSES.  37 

pital,  or  to  see  as  much  as  he  can  of  the 
Castle.  This  glorious  old  place  has  long 
been  kept  closed  for  fear  of  the  dynamite 
fiend  ; but  now  it  is  once  more  accessible.  I 
walked  again  beneath  the  stately  cedars  and 
along  the  bloom-bordered  avenues  where 
once  Joseph  Addison  used  to  wander  and 
meditate,  and  traversed  again  those  opulent 
state  apartments  wherein  so  many  royal, 
noble,  and  beautiful  faces  look  forth  from 
the  radiant  canvas  of  Holbein  and  Vandyke. 
There  is  a wonderful  picture,  in  one  of  those 
rooms,  of  Thomas  Wentworth,  Earl  of  Straf- 
ford, when  a young  man — a face  prophetic 
of  stormy  life  and  baleful  struggles  and  a 
hard  and  miserable  fate.  You  may  see  the 
helmet  that  was  worn  by  Oliver  Cromwell, 
and  also  a striking  death-mask  of  his  face. 
The  finest  portraits  of  King  Charles  1. 
that  exist  in  this  kingdom  are  shown  at 
Warwick  Castle. 


III. 


OLD  YORK. 


ORK,  August  12,  1888. — All  summer 


long  the  sorrowful  skies  have  been 
weeping  over  England,  and  my  first  pro- 
spect of  this  ancient  city  was  a prospect 
through  drizzle  and  mist.  Yet  even  so  it  was 
impressive.  York  is  one  of  the  quaintest 
cities  in  the  kingdom.  Many  of  the  streets 
are  narrow  and  crooked.  Most  of  the  build- 
ings are  of  low  stature,  built  of  brick,  and 
roofed  with  red  tiles.  Here  and  there  you 
find  a house  of  Queen  Elizabeth’s  time,  pic- 
turesque with  overhanging  timber-crossed 
fronts  and  peaked  gables.  One  such  house, 
in  Stonegate,  is  conspicuously  marked  with 
its  date,  1574.  Another,  in  College  Street, 
enclosing  a quadrangular  court,  and  lovely 
with  old  timber  and  carved  gateway,  was 
built  by  the  Neville  family  in  1460.  There  is 
a wide  area  in  the  centre  of  the  town  called 
Parliament  Street,  where  the  Market  is 


38 


OLD  YORK. 


39 


opened  by  torchlight  on  certain  evenings  of 
every  week.  It  was  market-time  last  even- 
ing, and,  wandering  through  the  motley  and 
merry  crowd  that  filled  the  square,  about 
nine  o’clock,  I bought  at  a flower-stall  the 
white  rose  of  York  and  the  red  rose  of 
Lancaster  — twining  them  together  as  an 
emblem  of  the  settled  peace  which  here 
broods  so  sweetly  over  the  venerable  relics 
of  a wild  and  stormy  past. 

Four  sections  of  the  old  wall  of  York  are 
still  extant,  and  the  observer  is  amused  to 
perceive  the  ingenuity  with  which  these 
grey  and  mouldering  remnants  of  the  feudal 
age  are  blended  into  the  structures  of  the 
democratic  present.  From  Bootham  to  Monk 
Gate  (so  named  in  honour  of  General  Monk 
at  the  Restoration),  a distance  of  about  half 
a mile,  the  wall  is  absorbed  by  the  adjacent 
buildings.  But  you  may  walk  upon  it  from 
Monk  Gate  to  Jewbury,  about  a quarter  of 
a mile,  and  afterward,  crossing  the  Foss, 
you  may  find  it  again  on  the  south-east  of 
the  city,  and  walk  upon  it  from  Red  Tower 
to  old  Fishergate,  descending  near  York 
Castle.  There  are  houses  both  within  the 
walls  and  without.  The  walk  is  about 
eight  feet  wide,  protected  on  one  hand  by 
a fretted  battlement,  and  on  the  other  by  an 


40  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

occasional  bit  of  iron  fence.  The  base  of 
the  wall,  for  a considerable  part  of  its  ex- 
tent, is  fringed  with  market  gardens  or  with 
grassy  banks.  In  one  of  its  towers  there  is 
a gate-house,  still  occupied  as  a dwelling ; 
and  a comfortable  dwelling  no  doubt  it  is. 
In  another,  of  which  nothing  now  remains 
but  the  walls,  four  large  trees  are  rooted ; 
and  as  they  are  already  tall  enough  to  wave 
their  leafy  tops  above  the  battlement,  they 
must  have  been  growing  there  for  twenty 
years.  At  one  point  the  Great  Northern 
Railway  enters  through  an  arch  in  the  an- 
cient wall,  and  as  you  look  down  from  the 
battlements  your  gaze  rests  upon  long  lines 
of  rail  and  a spacious  station — together  with 
its  adjacent  hotel ; objects  which  consort  but 
strangely  with  what  your  fancy  knows  of 
York,  a city  of  donjons  and  barbicans,  the 
moat,  the  drawbridge,  the  portcullis,  the 
citadel,  the  man-at-arms  and  the  knight  in 
armour,  with  the  banners  of  William  the 
Norman  flowing  over  all. 

The  river  Ouse — Cowper’s  “Ouse,  slow 
winding  through  its  level  plain” — divides 
the  city  of  York,  which  lies  mostly  upon  its 
east  bank,  and  in  order  to  reach  the  longest 
and  most  attractive  portion  of  the  wall  that 
is  now  available  to  the  pedestrian  you  must 


OLD  YORK. 


41 


cross  the  Ouse  either  at  Skeldergate  or 
Lendal,  paying  a halfpenny  as  toll,  both 
when  you  go  and  when  you  return.  The 
walk  here  is  three-quarters  of  a mile  long, 
and  from  an  angle  of  this  wall,  just  above 
the  railway  arch,  may  be  obtained  the  best 
view  of  the  mighty  cathedral — one  of  the 
most  stupendous  and  sublime  works  that 
ever  were  erected  by  the  inspired  brain  and 
loving  labour  of  man.  While  I walked 
there  last  night,  and  mused  upon  the  story 
of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  and  strove  to  con- 
jure up  the  pageants  and  the  horrors  that 
must  have  been  presented  all  about  this 
region  in  that  remote  and  turbulent  past, 
the  glorious  bells  of  the  Minster  were 
chiming  from  its  towers,  while  the  fresh 
evening  breeze,  sweet  with  the  fragrance 
of  wet  flowers  and  foliage,  seemed  to 
flood  this  ancient,  venerable  city  with 
the  golden  music  of  a celestial  benedic- 
tion. 

The  pilgrim  to  York  stands  in  the  centre 
of  the  largest  shire  in  England,  and  is  sur- 
rounded with  castles  and  monasteries,  now 
mostly  in  ruins,  but  teeming  with  those 
associations  of  history  and  literature  which 
are  the  glory  of  this  delightful  land.  From 
the  summit  of  the  great  central  tower  of 


42  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

the  Minster,  which  is  reached  by  two  hun- 
dred and  thirty-seven  steps,  I gazed  out 
over  the  vale  of  York  and  beheld  one  of  the 
loveliest  spectacles  that  ever  blessed  the 
eyes  of  man.  The  wind  was  fierce,  the  sun 
brilliant,  and  the  vanquished  storm-clouds 
were  streaming  away  before  the  northern 
blast.  Far  beneath  lay  the  red-roofed  city, 
its  devious  lanes  and  its  many  gray  churches 
—crumbling  relics  of  ancient  ecclesiastical 
power — distinctly  visible.  Through  the 
plain,  and  far  away  toward  the  south  and 
east,  ran  the  silver  thread  of  the  Ouse,  while 
all  around,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
stretched  forth  a smiling  landscape  of 
emerald  meadow  and  cultivated  field ; here 
a patch  of  woodland,  and  there  a silver 
gleam  of  wave  ; here  a manor-house  nestled 
amid  stately  trees,  and  there  an  ivy-covered 
fragment  of  ruined  masonry ; and  every- 
where the  green  lines  of  the  flowering 
hedge.  The  prospect  is  finer  here  than 
even  it  is  from  the  summit  of  Strasburg 
Cathedral ; and  indeed,  when  all  is  said 
that  can  be  said  about  natural  scenery  and 
architectural  sublimities,  it  seems  amazing 
that  any  lover  of  the  beautiful  should  deem 
it  necessary  to  quit  the  infinite  variety  of 
the  British  islands.  Earth  cannot  show 
you  anything  more  softly  fair  than  the 


OLD  YORK. 


43 


lakes  and  mountains  of  Cumberland  and 
Westmoreland.  No  city  can  excel  Edin- 
burgh in  stately  solidity  of  character,  or 
tranquil  grandeur,  or  in  magnificence  of 
position.  The  most  exquisitely  beautiful  of 
churches  is  Roslin  Chapel.  And  though 
you  search  the  wide  world  through,  you  will 
never  find  such  cathedrals — so  fraught  with 
majesty,  sublimity,  the  loveliness  of  human 
art,  and  the  ecstatic  sense  of  a divine 
element  in  human  destiny  ! — as  those  of 
York,  Canterbury,  and  Lincoln.  While 
thus  I lingered  in  wondering  meditation 
upon  the  crag-like  summit  of  York  Minster, 
the  muffled  thunder  of  its  vast,  sonorous 
organ  rose,  rolling  and  throbbing,  from  the 
mysterious  depth  below,  and  seemed  to 
shake  the  great  tower  as  with  a mighty 
blast  of  jubilation  and  worship.  At  such 
moments,  if  ever,  when  the  tones  of  human 
adoration  are  floating  up  to  heaven,  a man 
is  lifted  out  of  himself  and  made  to  forget 
his  puny  mortal  existence  and  all  the  petty 
nothings  that  weary  his  spirit,  darken  his 
vision,  and  weigh  him  down  to  the  level  of 
the  sordid,  trivial  world.  Well  did  they 
know  this,  those  old  monks  who  built  the 
abbeys  of  Britain,  laying  their  foundations 
not  alone  deeply  in  the  earth,  but  deeply  in 
the  human  soul ! 


44  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

All  the  ground  that  you  survey  from  the 
top  of  York  Minster  is  classic  ground — 
at  least  to  those  persons  whose  imagina- 
tions are  kindled  by  associations  with  the 
stately  and  storied  past.  In  the  city  that 
lies  at  your  feet  stood  once  the  great  Con- 
stantine, to  be  proclaimed  Emperor  and  to 
be  invested  with  the  imperial  purple  of 
Rome.  In  the  original  York  Minster — for 
the  present  is  the  fourth  church  that  has 
been  erected  upon  this  site — was  buried 
that  valiant  soldier  “Old  Siward,”  whom 
“gracious  England”  lent  to  the  Scottish 
cause,  under  Malcolm  and  Macduff,  when 
time  at  length  was  ripe  for  the  ruin  of 
Glamis  and  Cawdor.  Close  by  is  the  field 
of  Stamford  Bridge,  where  Harold  defeated 
the  Danes  with  terrible  slaughter,  only  nine 
days  before  he  himself  was  defeated  and 
slain  at  Hastings.  Southward,  following 
the  line  of  the  Ouse,  you  look  down  upon 
the  ruins  of  Clifford’s  Tower,  built  by 
William  the  Conqueror  in  1068,  and  de- 
stroyed by  the  explosion  of  its  powder 
magazine  in  1684.  Not  far  away  is  the 
battlefield  of  Towton,  where  the  great  War- 
wick slew  his  horse  that  he  might  fight 
on  foot  and  possess  no  advantage  over  the 
common  soldiers  of  his  force.  Henry  vi. 


OLD  YORK. 


45 


and  Margaret  were  waiting  in  York  for 
news  of  the  event  of  that  fatal  battle — 
which,  in  its  effect,  made  them  exiles,  and 
bore  to  an  assured  supremacy  the  rightful 
standard  of  the  White  Rose.  In  this  church 
Edward  iv«  was  crowned,  and  Richard  in. 
was  proclaimed  king  and  had  his  second 
coronation.  Southward  you  may  see  the 
open  space  called  The  Pavement,  connect' 
ing  with  Parliament  Street,  and  the  red 
brick  church  of  St.  Crux.  In  the  Pavement 
the  Earl  of  Northumberland  was  beheaded 
for  treason  against  Queen  Elizabeth  in  1572, 
and  in  St.  Crux  (one  of  Wren’s  churches) 
his  remains  lie  buried  beneath  a dark  blue 
slab,  still  shown  to  visitors.  A few  miles 
away,  but  easily  within  reach  of  your  vision, 
is  the  field  of  Marston  Moor,  where  the 
impetuous  Prince  Rupert  imperilled  and 
wellnigh  lost  the  cause  of  Charles  i.  in 
1644 ; and  as  you  look  toward  that  fatal 
spot  you  can  almost  hear,  in  the  chamber  of 
your  fancy,  the  paeans  of  thanksgiving  for 
the  victory  that  were  uttered  in  the  church 
beneath.  Cromwell,  then  a subordinate 
officer  in  the  Parliamentary  army,  was 
one  of  the  worshippers.  Charles  also  has 
knelt  at  this  altar.  Indeed,  of  the  fifteen 
kings,  from  William  of  Normandy  to  Henry 


46  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

of  Windsor,  whose  sculptured  effigies  appear 
upon  the  chancel  screen  in  York  Minster, 
there  is  scarcely  one  who  has  not  worshipped 
in  this  cathedral. 

York  Minster  has  often  been  described, 
but  no  description  can  convey  an  adequate 
impression  of  its  grandeur.  Canterbury  is 
the  lovelier  cathedral  of  the  two,  and  Canter- 
bury possesses  the  inestimable  advantage  of 
a "spacious  close.  It  must  be  said  also,  for 
the  city  of  Canterbury,  that  the  presence 
and  influence  of  a great  church  are  more 
distinctly  and  delightfully  felt  in  that  place 
than  they  are  in  York.  There  is  a more 
spiritual  tone  at  Canterbury,  a tone  of 
superior  delicacy  and  refinement,  a certain 
aristocratic  coldness  and  repose.  In  York 
you  perceive  the  coarse  spirit  of  a demo- 
cratic era.  The  walls,  which  ought  to  be 
cherished  with  scrupulous  care,  are  found 
in  many  places  to  be  defiled.  At  intervals 
along  the  walks  upon  the  banks  of  the  Ouse 
you  behold  placards  requesting  the  co-opera- 
tion of  the  public  in  protecting  from  harm 
the  swans  that  navigate  the  river.  Even  in 
the  Cathedral  itself  there  is  displayed  a 
printed  notice  that  the  Dean  and  Chapter 
are  amazed  at  disturbances  which  occur  in 
the  nave  whilst  divine  service  is  proceeding 


OLD  YORK. 


47 


in  the  choir.  These  things  imply  a rough 
element  in  the  population,  and  in  such  a 
place  as  York  such  an  element  is  exception- 
ally offensive  and  deplorable. 

It  was  said  by  the  late  Lord  Beaconsfield 
that  progress  in  the  nineteenth  century  is 
found  to  consist  chiefly  in  a return  to  ancient 
ideas.  There  may  be  places  to  which  the 
characteristic  spirit  of  the  present  day  con- 
tributes an  element  of  beauty ; but  if  so  I 
have  not  seen  them.  Wherever  there  is 
beauty  there  is  the  living  force  of  tradition 
to  account  for  it.  The  most  that  a con- 
servative force  in  society  can  accomplish,  for 
the  preservation  of  an  instinct  in  favour  of 
whatever  is  beautiful  and  impressive,  is  to 
protect  what  remains  from  the  past.  Modern 
Edinburgh,  for  example,  has  contributed  no 
building  that  is  comparable  with  its  glorious 
old  castle,  or  with  Roslin,  or  with  what  we 
know  to  have  been  Melrose  and  Dryburgh  ; 
but  its  castle  and  its  chapels  are  protected 
and  preserved.  York,  in  the  present  day, 
erects  a commodious  railway-station  and  a 
sumptuous  hotel,  and  spans  its  ample  river 
with  two  splendid  bridges  ; but  its  modern 
architecture  is  puerile  beside  that  of  its 
ancient  Minster;  and  so  its  best  work,  after 
all,  is  the  preservation  of  its  Cathedral. 


48  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

One  finds  it  difficult  to  understand  how 
anybody,  however  lowly  born  or  poorly  en- 
dowed or  meanly  nurtured,  can  live  within 
the  presence  of  this  heavenly  building,  and 
not  be  purified  and  exalted  by  the  con- 
templation of  so  much  majesty,  and  by  its 
constantly  irradiative  force  of  religious  sen- 
timent and  powder.  But  the  spirit  which  in 
the  past  created  objects  of  beauty  and 
adorned  common  life  with  visible  manifes- 
tations of  the  celestial  aspiration  in  human 
nature  had  constantly  to  struggle  against 
insensibility  or  violence ; and  just  so  the 
few  who  have  inherited  that  spirit  in  the 
present  day  are  compelled  steadily  to  com- 
bat the  hard  materialism  and  gross  animal 
proclivities  of  the  new  age. 

What  a comfort  their  souls  must  find  in 
such  an  edifice  as  York  Minster  ! What  a 
solace  and  what  an  inspiration  ! There  it 
stands,  dark  and  lonely  to-night,  but  sym- 
bolising, as  no  other  object  upon  earth  can 
ever  do,  except  one  of  its  own  great  kindred, 
God’s  promise  of  immortal  life  to  man  and 
man’s  unquenchable  faith  in  the  promise  of 
God.  Dark  and  lonely  now,  but  during 
many  hours  of  its  daily  and  nightly  life 
sentient,  eloquent,  vital,  participating  in 
all  the  thought  and  conduct  and  experience 


OLD  YORK. 


49 


of  those  who  dwell  around  it.  The  beauti- 
ful peal  of  its  bells  that  I heard  last  night 
was  for  Canon  Baillie,  one  of  the  oldest  and 
most  beloved  and  venerated  of  its  clergy. 
This  morning,  sitting  in  its  choir,  I heard 
the  tender,  thoughtful  eulogy  so  simply  and 
sweetly  spoken  by  the  aged  Dean,  and  once 
again  learned  the  essential  lesson  that  an 
old  age  of  grace,  patience,  and  benignity 
means  a pure  heart,  an  unselfish  spirit,  and 
a good  life  passed  in  the  service  of  others. 
This  afternoon  I had  a place  among  the 
worshippers  that  thronged  the  nave  to 
hear  the  special  anthem  chanted  for  the 
deceased  Canon ; and,  as  the  organ  pealed 
forth  its  mellow  thunder,  and  the  rich  tones 
of  the  choristers  swelled  and  rose  and  broke 
in  golden  waves  of  melody  upon  the  groined 
arches  and  vaulted  roof,  my  soul  seemed 
borne  away  to  a peace  and  rest  that  are  not 
of  this  world.  To-night  the  rising  moon, 
as  she  gleams  through  drifting  clouds,  will 
pour  her  silver  rays  upon  that  great  east 
window — at  once  the  largest  and  the  most 
beautiful  in  existence — and  all  the  Bible 
stories  told  there  in  such  exquisite  hues 
and  forms  will  glow  with  heavenly  lustre 
on  the  dark  vista  of  chancel  and  nave. 
And  when  the  morning  comes  the  first 

T) 


50  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

beams  of  the  rising  sun  will  stream  through 
the  great  casement  and  illumine  the  figures 
■^f  saints  and  archbishops,  and  gild  the  old 
tattered  battle-flags  in  the  chancel  aisle, 
and  touch  with  blessing  the  marble  effigies 
of  the  dead ; and  we  who  walk  there,  re- 
freshed and  comforted,  shall  feel  that  the 
vast  Cathedral  is  indeed  the  gateway  to 
heaven. 

York  Minster  is  the  loftiest  of  all  the 
English  cathedrals,  and  the  second  in  length 
— Winchester  being  thirty  feet  longer.  The 
present  structure  is  600  years  old,  and  200 
years  were  occupied  in  the  building  of  it. 
They  show  you,  in  the  crypt,  some  fine 
remains  of  the  Norman  church  that  pre- 
ceded it  upon  the  same  site,  together  with 
traces  of  the  still  older  Saxon  church  that 
preceded  the  Norman.  The  first  one  was 
of  wood,  and  was  totally  destroyed.  The 
Saxon  remains  are  a fragment  of  stone  stair- 
case and  a piece  of  wall  built  in  the  ancient 
“ herring-bone  ” fashion.  The  Norman  re- 
mains are  four  clustered  columns,  embel- 
lished in  the  dog-tooth  style.  There  is  not 
much  of  commemorative  statuary  at  York 
Minster,  and  what  there  is  of  it  was  placed 
chiefly  in  the  chancel.  Archbishop  Scrope, 
who  figures  in  Shakespeare’s  historical  play 


OLD  YORK. 


51 


of  Henry  7F.,  was  buried  in  the  Lady 
Chapel.  Lawrence  Sterne’s  grandfather, 
who  was  chaplain  to  Laud,  is  represented 
there,  in  his  ecclesiastic  dress,  reclining 
upon  a couch  and  supporting  his  mitred 
head  upon  his  hand — a squat  figure  uncom- 
fortably posed,  but  sculptured  with  delicate 
skill.  Many  historic  names  occur  in  the 
inscriptions — Wentworth,  Finch,  Fenwick, 
Carlisle,  and  Heneage, — and  in  the  north 
aisle  of  the  chancel  is  the  tomb  of  William 
of  Hatfield*  second  son  of  Edward  in., 
who  died  in  1343-44,  in  the  eighth  year  of 
his  age.  An  alabaster  statue  of  the  royal 
boy  reclines  upon  his  tomb.  In  the  Cathe- 
dral library,  which  contains  8000  volumes 
and  is  kept  at  the  Deanery,  is  the  Princess 
Elizabeth’s  prayer-book,  containing  her  auto- 
graph. In  one  of  the  chapels  is  the  original 
throne-chair  of  Edward  in. 

In  St.  Leonard’s  Place  still  stands  the 
York  Theatre,  erected  by  Tate  Wilkinson 
in  1765.  In  York  Castle  Eugene  Aram  was 
imprisoned  and  suffered.  Knaresborough, 
the  scene  of  his  crime,  is  but  a few  mile 
distant.  The  poet  Porteous,  the  sculptor 
Flaxman,  and  the  fanatic  Guy  Fawkes,  were 
natives  of  York,  and  have  often  walked  its 
streets.  Standing  on  Skeldergate  Bridge. 


UNiVtHSIT  V Oi  iLUNOII 
LIBRARY 


52  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

few  readers  of  English  fiction  could  fail  to 
recall  that  exquisite  description  of  the  place 
in  the  novel  of  No  Name.  In  his  artistic 
use  of  weather,  atmosphere,  and  colour, 
Wilkie  Collins  is  always  remarkable  equally 
for  his  fidelity  to  nature  and  fact,  and  for 
the  felicity  and  beauty  of  his  language.  His 
portrayal  of  York  seems  more  than  ever  a 
gem  of  literary  art,  when  you  have  seen  the 
veritable  spot  of  poor  Magdalen’s  meeting 
with  Captain  Wragge.  The  name  of  Wragge 
is  on  one  of  the  signboards  in  the  city.  The 
river,  on  which  I did  not  omit  to  take  a 
boat,  was  picturesque,  with  its  many  quaint 
barges,  bearing  masts  and  sails,  and  embel- 
lished with  touches  of  green  and  crimson 
and  blue.  There  is  no  end  to  the  associa- 
tions and  suggestions  of  the  storied  city. 
But  you  are  weary  of  them  by  this  time. 
Let  me  respect  the  admonition  of  the  mid- 
night bell,  and  seek  repose  beneath  the 
hospitable  wing  of  the  old  Black  Swan  in 
Coney  Street,  whence  I send  this  humble 
memorial  of  ancient  York, 


IV. 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MOORE. 

DEVIZES,  Wiltshire,  August  20,  1888. 

— The  scarlet  discs  of  the  poppies  and 
the  red  and  white  blooms  of  the  clover, 
together  with  wild-flowers  of  many  hues, 
bespangle  now  this  emerald  sod  of  England, 
while  the  air  is  rich  with  fragrance  of  lime- 
trees  and  of  new-mown  hay.  The  busy  and 
sagacious  rooks,  fat  and  bold,  wing  their 
way  in  great  clusters,  bent  on  forage  and 
mischief.  There  is  almost  a frosty  chill  in 
the  autumnal  air,  and  the  brimming  rivers, 
dark  and  deep  and  smoothly  flowing  through 
this  opulent,  cultivated,  and  park-like  region 
of  Wiltshire,  look  cold  and  bright.  In 
many  fields  the  hay  is  cut  and  stacked. 
In  others  the  men,  and  often  the  women, 
armed  with  rakes,  are  tossing  it  to  dry  in 
the  reluctant,  intermittent,  bleak  sunshine 
of  this  rigorous  August.  Overhead  the  sky 
is  now  as  blue  as  the  deep  sea,  and  now  grim 
and  ominous  with  great  drifting  masses  of 

53 


54  gray  days  and  gold. 

slate-coloured  cloud.  There  are  moments 
of  beautiful  sunshine  by  day,  and  in  some 
hours  of  the  night  the  moon  shines  forth  in 
all  her  pensive  and  melancholy  glory.  It  is 
a time  of  exquisite  loveliness,  and  it  has 
seemed  a fitting  time  for  a visit  to  the  last 
English  home  and  the  last  resting-place  of 
the  poet  of  loveliness  and  love,  the  great 
Irish  poet,  Thomas  Moore. 

When  Moore  first  went  up  to  London,  a 
young  poet  seeking  to  launch  his  earliest 
writings  upon  the  stream  of  contemporary 
literature,  he  crossed  from  Dublin  to  Bristol 
and  then  travelled  to  the  capital  by  way 
of  Bath  and  Devizes  ; and,  as  he  crossed  seve- 
ral times,  he  must  soon  have  gained  famili- 
arity with  this  part  of  the  country.  He 
did  not,  however,  settle  in  Wiltshire  until 
some  years  afterward.  His  first  lodging 
in  London  was  a front  room,  up  two  pair 
of  stairs,  at  Ho.  44  George  Street,  Portman 
Square.  He  subsequently  lived  at  No.  46 
Wigmore  Street,  Cavendish  Square,  and  at 
No.  27  Bury  Street,  St.  James’s.  This  was  in 
1805.  In  1810  he  resided  for  a time  at  No. 
22  Molesworth  Street,  Dublin,  but  he  soop 
returned  to  England.  One  of  his  homes, 
shortly  after  his  marriage  with  Elizabeth 
Dyke  (“Bessie,”  the  sister  of  the  great 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MOORE.  55 

actress  Mary  Duff)  was  in  Brompton.  In 
the  spring  of  1812  he  settled  at  Kegworth, 
but  a year  later  he  is  found  at  Mayfield 
Cottage,  near  Ashbourne,  Derbyshire.  “I 
am  now  as  you  wished,”  he  wrote  to  Mr. 
Power,  the  music-publisher,  July  1,  1813, 
“ within  twenty-four  hours’  drive  of  town.” 
In  1817  he  occupied  a cottage  near  the  foot 
of  Muswell  Hill,  at  Hornsey,  Middlesex, 
but  after  he  lost  his  daughter  Barbara,  who 
died  there,  the  place  became  distressful  to 
him,  and  he  left  it.  In  the  latter  part  of 
September  that  year,  the  time  of  their 
affliction,  Moore  and  his  Bessie  were  the 
guests  of  Lady  Donegal  at  No.  56  Davies 
Street,  Berkeley  Square,  London.  Then  they 
removed  to  Sloperton  Cottage,  at  Bromham, 
near  Devizes  (November  19,  1817),  and  their 
permanent  residence  was  established  in  that 
place.  Lord  Lansdowne,  one  of  the  poet’s 
earliest  and  best  friends,  was  the  owner  of 
this  estate,  and  doubtless  he  was  the  impulse 
of  Moore’s  resort  to  it.  The  present  Lord 
Lansdowne  still  owns  Bowood  Park,  about 
four  miles  away. 

Devizes  impresses  you  with  the  singular 
sense  of  being  a place  in  which  something  is 
always  about  to  happen ; but  nothing  ever 
does  happen  in  it,  or  ever  will.  Quieter  it 


56 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


could  not  be  unless  it  were  dead.  The 
principal  street  in  it  runs  nearly  north-west 
and  south-east.  There  is  a “ Northgate  ” 
at  one  end  of  it  and  a “ Southgate  ” at  the 
other.  Most  of  the  streets  are  narrow  and 
crooked.  The  houses  are  low,  and  built  of 
brick.  Few  buildings  are  pretentious.  A 
canal  intersects  the  place,  but  in  such  a sub- 
terranean and  furtive  manner  as  scarcely  to 
attract  even  casual  notice.  Public-houses 
are  sufficiently  numerous,  and  they  appear 
to  be  sufficiently  prosperous.  Even  while 
I write,  the  voice  of  song,  issuing  somewhat 
discordantly  from  one  of  them  in  this  imme- 
diate neighbourhood,  declares,  with  beery 
emphasis,  that  “Britons  never,  never,  never 
will  be  slaves.”  Close  by  stands  a castle 
— a new  one,  built,  however,  upon  the  basis 
and  plan  of  an  ancient  structure  that  was 
long  included  in  the  dowry  settled  upon 
successive  Queens  of  England.  In  the  centre 
of  the  town  is  a large  square,  which  only 
needs  a fringe  of  well-grown  trees  to  make 
it  exceedingly  pleasant — for  its  commodious 
expanse  is  seldom  invaded  by  a vehicle  or  a 
human  being.  Pilgrims  in  quest  of  peace 
could  not  do  better  than  to  tarry  here. 
Nobody  is  in  a hurry  about  anything,  and 
manners  are  primitive  and  frank.  At  break- 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MOORE.  57 

fast  yesterday,  in  the  coffee-room  of  the 
Bear,  one  sedate  and  ruminant  personage, 
a farmer  on  his  travels  and  arrayed  in  his 
Sunday  clothes,  calmly  removed  his  coat 
and  draped  his  chest  in  a prodigious  hand- 
kerchief— an  amusing  spectacle  of  bovine 
simplicity. 

The  city  bell  which  officially  strikes  the 
hours  in  Devizes  is  subdued  and  thoughtful, 
and  although  furnished  with  chimes  it  al- 
ways speaks  under  its  breath.  The  church- 
bell,  however,  rings  long  and  heartily,  and 
with  a melodious  clangour — as  though  the 
local  sinners  were  more  than  commonly 
hard  of  hearing.  In  the  great  public  square 
there  are  two  works  of  art — one  a fountain, 
the  other  a market  cross.  The  latter,  a 
good  specimen  of  the  perpendicular  Gothic, 
has  thirteen  spires,  rising  above  an  arched 
canopy  for  a statue.  One  face  of  it  is  in- 
scribed as  f ollows  : ‘ ‘ This  Market  Cross  was 
erected  by  Henry  Viscount  Sidmouth,  as  a 
memorial  of  his  grateful  attachment  to  the 
Borough  of  Devizes,  of  which  he  has  been 
Recorder  thirty  years,  and  of  which  he  was 
six  times  unanimously  chosen  a .representa- 
tive in  Parliament.  Anno  Domini  1814.” 
Upon  the  other  face  appears  a record  vastly 
more  significant — being  indicative,  as  to  the 


58 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


city  fathers,  equally  of  credulity  and  a 
frugal  mind,  and  being  in  itself  freighted 
with  tragic  import  unmatched  since  the 
Bible  narrative  of  Ananias  and  Sapphira. 
It  reads  thus  : — 

“ The  Mayor  and  Corporation  of  Devizes  avail 
themselves  of  the  stability  of  this  building  to 
transmit  to  future  times  the  record  of  an  awful 
event  which  occurred  in  this  market-place  in  the 
year  1753,  hoping  that  such  a record  may  serve 
as  a salutary  warning  against  the  danger  of 
impiously  invoking  the  Divine  vengeance,  or  of 
calling  on  the  holy  name  of  God  to  conceal  the 
devices  of  falsehood  and  fraud. 

“ On  Thursday,  the  25th  January  1753,  Ruth 
Pierce,  of  Potterne,  in  this  county,  agreed,  with 
three  other  women,  to  buy  a sack  of  wheat  in 
the  market,  each  paying  her  due  proportion 
toward  the  same. 

“ One  of  these  women,  in  collecting  the  several 
quotas  of  money,  discovered  a deficiency,  and 
demanded  of  Ruth  Pierce  the  sum  which  was 
wanted  to  make  good  the  amount. 

u Ruth  Pierce  protested  that  she  had  paid  her 
share,  and  said,  1 She  wished  she  might  drop 
down  dead  if  she  had  not.’ 

9‘  She  rashly  repeated  this  awful  wish,  when, 
to  the  consternation  of  the  surrounding  multi- 
tude, she  instantly  fell  down  and  expired,  having 
the  money  concealed  in  her  hand.” 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MOORE.  59 

An  interesting  church  in  Devizes  is  that 
of  St.  John,  the  Norman  tower  of  which  is 
a relic  of  the  days  of  King  Henry  11.,  a vast, 
grim  structure  with  a circular  turret  on 
one  corner  of  it.  Eastward  of  this  church 
is  a long  and  lovely  avenue  of  trees,  and 
around  it  lies  a large  burial-place,  remark- 
able for  the  excellence  of  the  sod  and  for  the 
number  visible  of  those  heavy,  gray,  oblong 
masses  of  tombstone  which  appear  to  have 
obtained  great  public  favour  about  the  time 
of  Cromwell.  In  the  centre  of  the  church- 
yard stands  a monolith,  inscribed  with 
these  words  : “ Remember  the  Sabbath-day 
to  keep  it  holy. — This  monument,  as  a 
solemn  monitor  to  Young  People  to  remem- 
ber their  Creator  in  the  days  of  their  youth, 
was  erected  by  subscription. — In  memory  of 
the  sudden  and  awful  end  of  Robert  Merrit 
and  his  wife,  Eliz.  Tiley,  her  sister  ; Martha 
Carter,  and  Josiah  Denham,  who  were 
drowned,  in  the  flower  of  their  youth,  in  a 
pond,  near  this  town,  called  Drews,  on  Sun- 
day evening,  the  30th  of  June  1751,  and 
are  together  underneath  entombed.  ” 

In  one  corner  of  the  churchyard  I came 
upon  a cross,  bearing  a simple  legend  far 
more  solemn,  sensible,  touching,  and  ad- 
monitory: “In  Memoriam — Robert  Samuel 


6o 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


Thornley.  Died  August  5,  1871.  Aged  48 
years.  For  fourteen  years  surgeon  to  the 
poor  of  Devices.  * There  shall  be  no  more 
pain.’”  And  over  still  another  sleeper  was 
written,  upon  a flat  stone,  low  in  the  ground — 

“ Loving,  beloved,  in  all  relations  true, 
Exposed  to  follies,  but  subdued  by  few : 
Reader,  reflect,  and  copy  if  you  can 
The  simple  virtues  of  this  honest  man.” 

As  I was  gazing  at  one  of  the  old  churches, 
surrounded  with  many  ponderous  tomb- 
stones and  looking  gray  and  cheerless  in  the 
gloaming,  last  night,  an  old  man  approached 
me  and  civilly  began  a conversation  about  the 
antiquity  of  the  church  and  the  eloquence 
of  its  rector.  When  I told  him  that  I had 
walked  to  Bromham  to  attend  the  service 
there,  and  to  see  the  cottage  and  grave  of 
Moore,  he  presently  furnished  to  me  that 
little  touch  of  personal  testimony  which  is 
always  so  interesting  and  significant  in  such 
circumstances.  “ I remember  Tom  Moore,” 
he  said ; “I  saw  him  when  he  was  alive.  I 
worked  for  him  once  in  his  house,  and  I did 
some  work  once  on  his  tomb.  He  was  a 
little  man.  He  spoke  to  us  very  pleasantly. 
I don’t  think  he  was  a preacher.  He  never 
preached  that  I heard  tell  of.  He  was  a 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MOORE. 


6l 


poet,  I believe.  He  was  very  much  liked 
here.  No,  I never  heard  a word  against 
him.  I am  seventy -nine  years  old  the  13th 
of  December,  and  that  ’ll  soon  be  here. 
I ’ve  had  three  wives  in  my  time,  and  my 
third  is  still  living.  It ’s  a fine  old  church, 
and  there ’s  figures  in  it  of  Bishops,  and 
Kings,  and  Queens.” 

Most  observers  have  remarked  the  odd 
way,  garrulous,  and  sometimes  unconsciously 
humorous,  in  which  senile  persons  prattle 
their  incongruous  and  sporadic  recollections. 
But — ‘ ‘How  pregnant  sometimes  his  replies 
are  ! ” Another  resident  of  Devizes,  with 
whom  I conversed,  likewise  remembered  the 
poet,  and  spoke  of  him  with  affectionate 
regard.  “My  sister,  when  she  was  a 
child,”  he  said,  “was  often  at  Moore’s 
house,  and  he  was  fond  of  her.  Yes,  his 
name  is  widely  remembered  and  honoured 
here.  But  I think  that  many  of  the  poor 
people  hereabout,  the  farmers,  admired  him 
chiefly  because  they  thought  that  he  wrote 
Moore’s  Almanac.  They  often  used  to  say 
to  him  : ‘ Mister  Moore,  please  tell  us  what 
the  weather ’s  going  to  be.’  ” 

From  Devizes  to  the  village  of  Bromham, 
a distance  of  about  four  miles,  the  walk  is 
delightful.  Much  of  the  path  is  between 


62 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


green  hedges,  and  is  embowered  by  elms. 
The  exit  from  the  town  is  by  Northgate 
and  along  the  Chippenham  road — which, 
like  all  the  roads  in  this  neighbourhood,  is 
smooth,  hard,  and  white.  A little  way  out 
of  Devizes,  going  north-west,  this  road  makes 
a deep  cut  in  the  chalk-stone,  and  so  winds 
down  hill  into  the  level  plain.  At  intervals 
you  come  upon  sweetly  pretty  specimens  of 
the  old  English  thatch-roof  cottage.  Hay- 
fields,  pastures,  and  market-gardens  extend 
on  every  hand.  Eastward,  far  off,  are  visible 
the  hills  of  Westbury,  upon  which,  here  and 
there,  the  copses  are  lovely,  and  upon  one 
of  which,  cut  in  the  rock,  is  the  figure  of  a 
colossal  white  horse— said  to  have  been  put 
there  by  the  Saxons  to  commemorate  the 
victories  of  King  Alfred.  Soon  the  road 
winds  over  a hill,  and  you  pass  through  the 
little  red  village  of  Rowde,  with  its  gray 
church-tower.  The  walk  may  be  shortened 
by  a cut  across  the  fields,  and  this,  indeed,  is 
found  the  sweetest  part  of  the  journey — for 
now  the  path  lies  through  gardens,  and 
through  the  centre  or  along  the  margin 
of  the  wheat,  which  waves  in  the  strong 
wind  and  sparkles  in  the  bright  sunshine, 
and  is  everywhere  sweetly  and  tenderly 
touched  with  the  scarlet  of  the  poppy  and 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MOOEE.  63 

with  hues  of  other  wild-flowers — making 
you  think  of  Shakespeare’s 

“Rank  fumiter  and  furrow  weeds, 

With  hemlock,  harlock,  nettles,  cuckoo-flowers, 
Darnel,  and  all  the  idle  weeds  that  grow 
In  our  sustaining  corn.” 

There  is  one  field  through  which  I passed, 
just  as  the  spire  of  Bromham  Church  came 
into  view,  in  which  a surface  more  than 
three  hundred  yards  square  was  blazing 
with  wild-flowers,  white  and  gold  and  crim- 
son and  purple  and  blue,  upon  a growth  of 
vivid  green,  so  that  to  look  upon  it  was 
almost  to  be  dazzled,  while  the  air  that 
floated  over  it  was  scented  as  if  with  honey- 
suckles. You  may  see  the  delicate  spire  and 
the  low  gray  tower  of  Moore’s  church  some 
time  before  you  come  to  it,  and  in  some 
respects  the  prospect  is  not  unlike  that 
of  Shakespeare’s  church  at  Stratford.  A 
sweeter  spot  for  a poet’s  sepulchre  it  would 
be  hard  to  find.  No  spot  could  be  more 
harmonious  than  this  one  is  with  the  gentle, 
romantic  spirit  of  Moore’s  poetry,  and 
with  the  purity,  refinement,  and  serenity 
of  his  life.  Bromham  village  consists  of 
a few  red  brick  buildings,  scattered  along  a 
few  irregular  little  lanes,  on  a ridge  over- 


64  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

looking  a valley.  Amid  these  humble  homes 
stands  the  gray  church,  like  a shepherd 
keeping  his  flock.  A part  of  it  is  very  old, 
and  all  of  it,  richly  weather-stained  and 
delicately  browned  with  fading  moss,  is 
beautiful.  Upon  the  tower  and  along  the 
south  side  the  fantastic  gargoyles  are  much 
decayed.  The  building  is  a cross.  The  large 
chancel-window  faces  eastward,  and  the  large 
window  at  the  end  of  the  nave  looks  toward 
the  west — the  latter  being  a memorial  to 
Moore.  At  the  south-east  corner  of  the 
building  is  the  Lady  Chapel,  in  which  are 
suspended  various  fragments  of  old  armour, 
and  in  the  centre  of  which,  recumbent  on  a 
great  dark  tomb,  is  a grim-visaged  knight, 
clad  from  top  to  toe  in  his  mail,  beautifully 
sculptured  in  marble  that  looks  like  yellow 
ivory.  Other  tombs  are  adjacent,  with  in- 
scriptions that  implicate  the  names  of  Sir 
Edward  Bayntun,  1679,  and  Lady  Anne 
Wilmot,  elder  daughter  and  co-heiress  of 
John,  Earl  of  Rochester,  who  successively 
was  the  wife  of  Henry  Bayntun  and  Francis' 
Greville,  and  who  died  in  1703.  The  win- 
dow at  the  end  of  the  nave  is  a simple  but 
striking  composition,  in  stained  glass,  richer 
and  nobler  than  is  commonly  seen  in  a coun- 
try church.  It  consists  of  twenty-one  lights, 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MOORE. 


65 


of  which  five  are  lancet  shafts,  side  by  side, 
these  being  surmounted  with  smaller  lancets, 
forming  a cluster  at  the  top  of  the  arch.  In 
the  centre  is  the  figure  of  Jesus,  and  around 
Him  are  the  Apostles.  The  colouring  is 
soft,  true,  and  beautiful.  Across  the  base 
of  the  window  appear  the  words,  in  the 
glass  : “ This  window  is  placed  in  this 
church  by  the  combined  subscriptions  of  two 
hundred  persons  who  honour  the  memory 
of  the  poet  of  all  circles  and  the  idol  of 
his  own,  Thomas  Moore.”  It  was  beneath 
this  window,  in  a little  pew  in  the  corner 
of  the  church,  that  the  present  writer  joined 
in  the  service,  and  meditated,  throughout 
a long  sermon,  on  the  lovely  life  and  char- 
acter, and  the  gentle,  noble,  and  abiding 
influence,  of  the  poet  whose  hallowed  grave 
and  beloved  memory  make  this  place  a per- 
petual shrine. 

Moore  was  buried  in  the  churchyard.  An 
iron  fence  encloses  his  tomb,  which  is  at  the 
base  of  the  church  tower,  in  an  angle  formed 
by  the  tower  and  the  chancel,  on  the  north 
side  of  the  building.  Not  more  than  twenty 
tombs  are  visible  on  this  side  of  the  church, 
and  these  appear  upon  a level  lawn  as  green 
and  sparkling  as  an  emerald  and  as  soft  as 
velvet.  On  three  sides  the  churchyard  is 

E 


66 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


enclosed  by  a low  wall,  and  on  the  fourth  by 
a dense  hedge  of  glistening  holly.  Great 
trees  are  all  around  the  church,  but  not  too 
near.  A massive  yew  stands  darkly  at  one 
corner.  Chestnuts  and  elms  blend  their 
branches  in  fraternal  embrace.  Close  by 
the  poet’s  grave  a vast  beech  uprears  its 
dome  of  fruited  boughs  and  rustling  foliage. 
The  sky  was  blue,  except  for  a few  strag- 
gling masses  of  fleecy  and  slate-coloured 
cloud.  Not  a human  creature  was  any- 
where to  be  seen  while  I stood  in  this 
sacred  spot,  and  no  sound  disturbed  the 
Sabbath  stillness,  save  the  faint  whisper  of 
the  wind  in  the  lofty  tree-tops  and  the  low 
twitter  of  birds  in  their  hidden  nests.  I 
thought  of  his  long  life,  unblemished  by 
personal  guilt  or  public  error ; of  his  sweet 
devotion  to  parents  and  wife  and  children  ; 
of  his  pure  patriotism,  which  scorned 
equally  the  blatant  fustian  of  the  dema- 
gogue and  the  frenzy  of  the  revolutionist ; 
of  his  unsurpassed  fidelity  in  friendship  ; of 
his  simplicity  and  purity  in  a corrupt  time 
and  amid  many  temptations  ; of  his  meek- 
ness in  affliction ; of  the  devout  spirit  that 
made  him  murmur  on  his  deathbed, 
“ Bessie,  trust  in  God”;  of  the  many 
beautiful  songs  that  he  added  to  our  litera- 
ture,— every  one  of  which  is  the  perfectly 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MOORE.  67 

melodious  and  absolutely  final  expression 
of  one  or  another  of  the  elemental  feel- 
ings of  human  nature ; and  of  the  obli- 
gation of  endless  gratitude  that  the  world 
owes  to  his  fine  and  high  and  beneficent 
genius.  And  thus  it  seemed  good  to  be  in 
this  place,  and  to  lay  with  reverent  hands 
the  white  roses  of  honour  and  affection 
upon  his  tomb. 

On  the  long,  low,  flat  stone  that  covers 
the  poet’s  dust  are  inscribed  the  following 
words  : “ Anastatia  Mary  Moore.  Born 
March  16,  1813.  Died  March  8,  1829. 
Also  her  brother,  John  Russell  Moore,  who 
died  November  23,  1842,  aged  19  years. 
Also  their  father,  Thomas  Moore,  tenderly 
beloved  by  all  who  knew  the  goodness  of 
his  heart.  The  Poet  and  Patriot  of  his 
Country,  Ireland.  Born  May  28,  1779. 
Sank  to  rest  February  25,  1852.  Aged  72. 
God  is  Love.  Also  his  wife,  Bessie  Moore, 
who  died  4th  September  1865.  And  to  the 
memory  of  their  dear  son,  Thomas  Lans- 
downe  Parr  Moore.  Born  24th  October 
1818.  Died  in  Africa,  January  1846.” 
Moore’s  little  daughter,  Barbara,  is  buried 
at  Hornsey,  near  London,  in  the  same 
churchyard  where  rest  the  bones  of  the  poet 
Samuel  Rogers.  On  the  stone  that  marks 
that  spot  is  written,  “Anne  Jane  Barbara 


68 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


Moore.  Born  January  the  4th,  1812.  Died 
September  the  18th,  1817. ” 

North-west  from  Bromham  Church,  and 
about  one  mile  away,  stands  Sloperton  Cot- 
tage, the  last  home  of  the  poet,  and  the 
house  in  which  he  died.  A deep  valley 
intervenes  between  the  church  and  the  cot- 
tage, but,  as  each  is  built  upon  a ridge,  you 
may  readily  see  the  one  from  the  other. 
There  is  a road  across  the  valley,  but  the 
more  pleasant  walk  is  along  a pathway 
through  the  meadows  and  over  several 
stiles,  ending  almost  in  front  of  the  storied 
house.  It  is  an  ideal  home  for  a poet.  The 
building  is  made  of  brick,  but  it  is  so  com- 
pletely enwrapped  in  ivy  that  scarcely  a 
particle  of  its  surface  can  be  seen.  It  is  a 
low  building,  with  three  gables  on  its  main 
front  and  with  a wing ; it  stands  in  the 
middle  of  a garden  enclosed  by  walls  and 
by  hedges  of  ivy ; and  it  is  embowered  by 
great  trees,  yet  not  so  closely  embowered  as 
to  be  shorn  of  the  prospect  from  its  windows. 
Flowers  and  flowering  vines  were  blooming 
around  it.  The  hard,  white  road,  flowing 
past  its  gateway,  looked  like  a thread  of 
silver  between  the  green  hedgerows  which 
here  for  many  miles  are  rooted  in  high, 
grassy  banks,  and  at  intervals  are  diversi- 
fied with  large  trees.  Sloperton  Cottage  is 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MOORE.  69 

almost  alone,  but  there  are  a few  neigh- 
bours, and  there  is  a little  rustic  village 
about  half  a mile  westward.  Westward 
was  the  poet’s  favourite  prospect.  He  loved 
the  sunset,  and  from  a certain  terrace  in  his 
garden  he  rarely  failed  to  watch  the  pageant 
of  the  dying  day.  Here,  for  thirty-five 
years,  was  his  peaceful  and  happy  home. 
Here  he  meditated  many  of  those  gems  of 
lyrical  poetry  which  will  live  in  the  hearts 
of  men  as  long  as  anything  lives  that  ever 
was  written  by  mortal  hand.  And  here  he 
“ sank  to  rest,”  worn  out  at  last  by  in- 
cessant labour  and  by  many  sorrows — the 
bitter  fruit  of  domestic  bereavement  and 
disappointment.  The  sun  was  sinking  as  I 
turned  away  from  this  hallowed  haunt  of 
genius  and  virtue,  and,  through  green  pas- 
tures and  flower-spangled  fields  of  waving 
grain,  set  forth  upon  my  homeward  walk. 
Soon  there  was  a lovely  peal  of  chimes  from 
Bromham  Church  tower,  answered  far  off  by 
the  bells  of  Rowde,  and,  while  I descended 
into  the  darkening  valley,  Moore’s  tender 
words  came  singing  through  my  thought : — 

“ And  so  ’twill  be  when  I am  gone — 

That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on, 

While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells  ! ” 


y. 


BEAUTIFUL  BATH. 

FROM  Devizes  the  traveller  naturally 
turns  toward  Bath,  which  is  only  a 
few  miles  distant.  A beautiful  city,  marred 
somewhat  by  the  feverish,  disturbing  spirit 
of  the  present  day,  this  old  place  — in 
which  the  Saxon  King  Edgar  was  crowned, 
a.d.  973 — nevertheless  retains  many  inter- 
esting characteristics  of  its  former  glory. 
More  than  a century  has  passed  since  the 
wigged,  powdered,  and  jewelled  days  of 
Beau  Nash.  The  Avon  (for  there  is  another 
Avon  here,  distinct  from  that  of  Warwick- 
shire and  that  of  Yorkshire)  is  spanned  by 
bridges  that  Smollett  never  dreamed  of  and 
Sheridan  never  saw.  The  town  has  crept 
upward,  along  both  the  valley  slopes,  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  hill-tops  that  used  to  look 
down  upon  it.  Along  the  margins  of  the 
river  many  gray,  stone  structures  are 
mouldering  in  neglect  and  decay ; but  a 

70 


BBAUTIFUL  BATH. 


71 


tramcar  rattles  through  the  principal  street ; 
the  boot-black  and  the  newsvendor  are 
active  and  vociferous ; the  causeways  are 
crowded  with  a bustling  throng,  and  carts 
and  carriages  dash  and  scramble  over  the 
pavement,  while,  where  of  old  the  horn 
used  to  sound  a gay  flourish  and  the  coach 
to  come  spinning  in  from  London,  now  is 
heard  the  shriek  and  clangour  of  the  steam- 
engine  dashing  down  the  vale  with  morn- 
ing papers  and  with  passengers,  three  hours 
from  town.  This,  indeed,  is  not  “the 
season”  (August  21,  1888),  and  of  late  it 
has  rained  with  zealous  persistence,  so  that 
Bath  is  not  in  her  splendour.  Much  how- 
ever can  be  seen,  and  the  essential  fact 
that  she  is  no  longer  the  Gainsborough  belle 
that  she  used  to  be  is  distinctly  evident. 
You  must  yield  your  mind  to  fancy  if  you 
would  conjure  up,  while  walking  in  these 
modern  streets,  the  gay  and  quaint  things 
described  in  Humphry  Clinker  or  indi- 
cated in  The  Rivals.  The  Bath  chairs, 
sometimes  pulled  by  donkeys,  and  some- 
times trundled  by  men,  are  among  the 
most  representative  relics  now  to  be  seen. 
Next  to  the  Theatre -Royal  (where  it 
was  my  privilege  to  enjoy  and  admire  Mr. 
Toole’s  richly  humorous  performance  of 


72 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


The  Don)  stands  a building,  just  at  the 
foot  of  Gascoigne  Place,  before  which  the 
traveller  pauses  with  interest,  because  upon 
its  front  he  may  read  the  legend,  neatly 
engraved  on  a wffiite  marble  slab,  that  4 4 In 
this  house  lived  the  celebrated  Beau  Nash, 
and  here  he  died,  February  1761.”  It  is  an 
odd  structure,  consisting  of  two  stories  and 
an  attic,  the  front  being  of  the  monotonous 
stucco  that  came  in  with  the  Regent.  Earlier 
no  doubt  the  building  was  timbered.  There 
are  eleven  windows  in  the  front,  four  of 
them  being  painted  on  the  wall.  The  house 
is  used  now  by  an  auctioneer.  In  the  his- 
toric Pump  Room — dating  back  to  1797 — 
raised  aloft  in  an  alcove  at  the  east  end, 
still  stands  the  effigy  of  the  Beau,  even  as  it 
stood  in  the  days  when  he  set  the  fashions, 
regulated  the  customs,  and  gave  the  laws, 
and  was  the  King  of  Bath  ; but  the  busts  of 
Newton  and  Pope  that  formerly  stood  on 
either  side  of  this  statue  stand  there  no 
more — save  in  the  fancy  of  those  who  recall 
the  epigram  which  was  suggested  by  this 
singular  group  : — 

44  This  statue  placed  these  busts  between 
Gives  satire  all  its  strength  ; 

Wisdom  and  Wit  are  little  seen, 

But  Folly  at  full  length.” 


BEAUTIFUL  BATH. 


73 


Folly,  though,  is  a word  that  carries  a 
different  meaning  to  different  ears.  Douglas 
Jerrold  made  a play  on  the  subject  of  Beau 
Nash — an  ingenious,  effective,  brilliantly 
written  play,  in  which  he  is  depicted  as 
anything  but  foolish.  Much  always  depends 
on  the  point  of  view. 

Quin  was  buried  in  Bath  Abbey,  and 
Bath  is  the  scene  of  The  Rivals.  It  would 
be  pleasant  to  fancy  the  trim  figure  of  the 
truculent  Sir  Lucius  O'"  Trigger  strutting 
along  the  Parade  ; or  bluff  and  choleric  Sir 
Anthony  Absolute  gazing  with  imperious 
condescension  upon  the  galaxy  of  the  Pump 
Room;  Acres  in  his  absurd  finery;  Lydia 
with  her  sentimental  novels ; and  Mrs. 
Malaprop , rigid  with  decorum,  in  her  Bath 
chair.  The  Abbey,  begun  in  1405  and  com- 
pleted in  1606,  has  a noble  west  front  and  a 
magnificent  door  of  carved  oak,  and  certainly 
it  is  a superb  church  ; but  the  eyes  that  have 
rested  upon  such  cathedrals  as  those  of 
Edinburgh  and  Glasgow,  such  a heavenly 
jewel  as  Roslin,  and  such  an  astounding  and 
overwhelming  edifice  as  York  Minster,  can 
dwell  calmly  on  Bath  Abbey.  A surprising 
feature  in  it  is  its  mural  record  of  the  dead 
that  are  entombed  beneath  or  around  it. 
Sir  Lucius  might  well  declare  that  “ There 


74 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


is  snug  lying  in  the  Abbey.”  Almost  every 
foot  of  the  walls  is  covered  with  monu- 
mental slabs,  and  like  Captain  Cuttle , after 
the  wedding  of  Mr.  Dombey  and  Edith 
Granger , I “pervaded  the  church  and  read 
the  epitaphs,”  solicitous  to  discover  that  of 
the  renowned  actor  James  Quin.  His  tablet 
was  formerly  to  be  found  in  the  chancel,  but 
now  it  is  obscurely  placed  in  a porch,  on 
the  northern  corner  of  the  building,  on 
what  may  be  termed  the  outer  wall  of  the 
sanctuary.  It  presents  the  face  of  the 
famous  comedian  carved  in  white  marble 
and  set  against  a black  slab.  Beneath  is 
the  date  of  his  death,  “Ob.  mdcclxvi. 
Aetat  lxxiii.  ,”  and  his  epitaph,  written 
by  David  Garrick.  At  the  base  are  dra- 
matic emblems — the  mask  and  the  dagger. 
As  a portrait  this  medallion  of  Quin  bears 
internal  evidence  of  scrupulous  fidelity  to 
nature,  and  certainly  it  is  a fine  work  of  art. 
The  head  is  dressed  as  it  was  in  life,  with 
the  full  wig  of  the  period.  The  features  are 
delicately  cut,  and  are  indicative  of  austere 
beauty  of  countenance — impressive  if  not 
attractive.  The  mouth  is  especially  hand- 
some— the  upper  lip  being  a perfect  Cupid’s 
bow.  The  face  is  serious,  expressive,  and 
fraught  with  intellect  and  power.  This  was 


BEAUTIFUL  BATH. 


75 


the  last  great  declaimer  of  the  old  school 
of  acting,  discomfited  and  almost  obliter- 
ated by  Garrick ; and  here  are  the  words 
that  Garrick  wrote  upon  his  tomb  : — 

“ That  tongue  which  set  the  table  on  a roar 
And  charmed  the  public  ear  is  heard  no  more  ; 
Closed  are  those  eyes,  the  harbingers  of  wit. 
Which  spoke,  before  the  tongue,  what  Shake- 
speare writ ; [forth, 

Cold  is  that  hand  which,  living,  was  stretched 
At  friendship’s  call,  to  succour  modest  worth. 
Here  lies  JAMES  QUIN.  Deign,  reader,  to 
be  taught 

Whate’er  thy  strength  of  body,  force  of 
thought, 

In  nature’s  happiest  mould  however  cast, 

To  this  complexion  thou  must  come  at  last.” 

A printed  reminder  of  mortality  is  super- 
fluous in  Bath,  for  you  almost  continually 
behold  afflicted  and  deformed  persons  who 
have  come  here  to  “take  the  waters.”  For 
rheumatic  sufferers  this  place  is  a paradise 
— as,  indeed,  it  is  for  all  wealthy  persons 
who  love  luxury.  Walter  Savage  Landor 
said  that  the  only  two  cities  of  Europe  in 
which  he  could  live  were  Bath  and  Florence ; 
but  that  was  long  ago.  When  you  have 
walked  in  Milsom  Street  and  Lansdowne 
Crescent,  sailed  upon  the  Avon,  observed 


76 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


the  Abbey,  without  and  within  — for  its 
dusky,  weather-stained  walls  are  extremely 
picturesque — attended  the  theatre,  climbed 
the  hills  for  the  view  of  the  city  and  the 
Avon  valley,  and  taken  the  baths,  you  will 
have  had  a satisfying  experience  of  Bath. 
The  greatest  luxury  in  the  place  is  a swim- 
ming tank  of  mineral  water,  about  forty 
feet  long,  by  twenty  broad,  and  five  feet 
deep  — a tepid  pool  of  most  refreshing 
potency.  And  the  chief  curiosity  is  the 
ruin  of  a Roman  bath  which  was  discovered 
and  laid  bare  in  1885.  This  is  built  in  the 
form  of  a rectangular  basin  of  stone,  with 
steps  around  it,  and  it  was  environed  with 
stone  chambers  that  were  used  as  dressing- 
rooms.  The  basin  is  nearly  perfect.  The 
work  of  restoration  of  this  ancient  bath  is 
in  progress,  but  the  relic  will  be  preserved 
only  as  an  emblem  of  the  past. 

Haynes  Bayly,  the  song-writer,  was  born 
in  Bath,  and  there  he  melodiously  recorded 
that  “She  wore  a wreath  of  roses,”  and 
there  he  dreamed  of  dwelling  “in  marble 
halls.”  But  Bath  is  not  nearly  as  rich  in 
literary  associations  as  its  neighbour  city 
of  Bristol.  Chatterton,  Southey,  Hannah 
More,  Mary  Robinson  — the  actress,  the 
lovely  and  unfortunate  “ Perdita,” — all 


BEAUTIFUL  BATH. 


77 


these  were  born  in  Bristol.  Richard  Savage, 
the  poet,  died  there  (1743),  and  so  did  John 
Hippesley,  the  comedian,  manager,  and 
farce-writer  (1748).  St.  Mary  Redclyffe 
Church,  built  in  1292,  is  still  standing  there, 
of  which  Chatterton’s  father  was  the  sexton, 
and  in  the  tower  of  which  4 4 the  marvellous 
boy  ” discovered,  according  to  his  ingenious 
plan  of  literary  imposture,  the  original 
Canynge  and  Rowley  manuscripts.  That 
famous  preacher,  the  Rev.  Robert  Hall 
(1764-1831),  had  a church  in  Bristol.  Sou- 
they and  Coleridge  married  sisters,  of  the 
name  of  Fricker,  who  resided  there,  and  the 
house  once  occupied  by  Coleridge  is  still  ex- 
tant in  the  contiguous  village  of  Clevedon 
— one  of  the  loveliest  places  on  the  English 
coast.  Jane  and  Anna  Maria  Porter  both 
lived  in  Bristol,  and  Maria  died  at  Mont- 
pelier near  by.  These  notes  indicate  but 
a tithe  of  what  may  be  seen  and  studied  and 
enjoyed  in  and  about  Bristol,  the  city  to 
which  poor  Chatterton  left  his  curse  ; the 
region  hallowed  by  the  dust  of  Arthur 
Hallam  — the  inspiration  of  Tennyson's 
44  In  Memoriam,”  the  loftiest  poem  that 
has  been  created  in  the  English  language 
since  the  pen  that  wrote  4 4 Childe  Harold  ” 
fell  from  the  divine  hand  of  Byron. 


VI. 

THE  LAKES  AND  FELLS  OF  WORDSWORTH. 

A GOOD  way  by  which  to  enter  the  Lake 
District  of  England  is  to  travel  to 
Penrith,  and  thence  to  drive  along  the 
shore  of  Ullswater,  or  sail  upon  its  crystal 
bosom,  to  the  blooming  solitude  of  Patter- 
dale.  Penrith  lies  at  the  eastern  slope  of 
the  mountains  of  Westmoreland,  and  you 
may  there  see  the  ruins  of  Penrith  Castle, 
once  the  property  and  the  abode  of  Richard, 
Duke  of  Gloucester,  before  he  became  King 
of  England.  Penrith  Castle  was  one  of  the 
estates  that  were  forfeited  by  the  great  Earl 
of  Warwick,  and  King  Edward  iv.  gave  it 
to  his  brother  Richard  in  1471.  Not  much 
remains  of  this  ancient  structure,  and  the 
remnant  is  now  occupied  by  a florist.  I saw 
it,  as  I saw  almost  everything  else  in  Great 
Britain  during  the  summer  of  1888,  under  a 
tempest  of  rain  ; for  it  rained  there,  with  a 
continuity  almost  ruinous,  from  the  time  of 
the  lilac  and  apple-blossom  till  when  the 

78 


LAKES  AND  FELLS  OF  WORDSWORTH.  79 


clematis  began  to  show  the  splendour  of  its 
purple  shield,  and  the  acacia  to  drop  its 
milky  blossoms  on  the  autumnal  grass. 
But  travellers  must  not  heed  the  weather. 
If  there  are  dark  days  there  are  also  bright 
ones — and  one  bright  day  in  such  a paradise 
as  the  English  Lakes  atones  for  the  dreari- 
ness of  a month  of  rain.  Beside,  even  the 
darkest  days  may  be  brightened  by  gentle 
companionship.  Henry  Irving  and  Ernest 
Bendall,  two  of  the  most  intellectual  and 
genial  men  in  England,  were  my  associates 
in  this  expedition.  We  came  from  London 
into  Westmoreland  on  a mild,  sweet  day  in 
July,  and  we  rambled  for  several  days  in  that 
enchanted  region.  It  was  a delicious  expe- 
rience ; and  I often  close  my  eyes  and  dream 
of  it — as  I am  dreaming  now. 

In  the  drive  between  Penrith  and  Patter- 
dale  you  see  many  things  that  are  worthy 
of  regard.  Among  these  are  the  parish 
church  of  Penrith,  a building  made  of  red 
stone,  remarkable  for  a massive  square 
tower  of  great  age  and  formidable  aspect. 
In  the  adjacent  churchyard  are  “ The 
Giant’s  Grave  ” and  “ The  Giant’s  Thumb,” 
relics  of  a distant  past  that  strongly  and 
strangely  affect  the  imagination.  The  grave 
is  said  to  be  that  of  Owen  Caesarius,  a 


8o 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


gigantic  individual  who  reigned  over  Cum- 
berland in  remote  Saxon  times.  The  Thumb 
is  a rough  stone,  about  seven  feet  high,  pre- 
senting a clumsy  cross,  and  doubtless  com- 
memorative of  another  mighty  warrior.  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  who  traversed  Penrith  on  his 
journeys  between  Edinburgh  and  London, 
seldom  omitted  to  pause  for  a view  of 
these  singular  memorials — and  Scott,  like 
Wordsworth,  has  left  upon  this  region  the 
abiding  impress  of  his  splendid  genius. 
“ Ulfo’s  Lake”  is  Scott’s  name  for  Ulls- 
water,  and  hereabout  is  laid  the  scene  of 
his  poem  of  “ The  Bridal  of  Triermain.” 
In  Scott’s  day  the  traveller  went  by  coach  or 
on  horseback,  but  now,  “ On  lonely  Threl- 
keld’s  solemn  waste,”  at  the  foot  of  craggy 
Blencathara,  you  pause  at  a railway  sta- 
tion with  “ Threlkeld  ” in  large  letters  on 
the  official  signboard.  Another  strange 
thing  that  is  passed  on  the  road  between 
Penrith  and  Patterdale  is  ‘ ‘ Arthur’s  Round 
Table  ” — a circle  of  lawn  slightly  raised 
above  the  surrounding  level,  and  certainly 
remarkable,  whatever  may  be  its  historic  or 
antiquarian  merit,  for  the  fine  texture  of 
its  sod  and  the  lovely  green  of  its  grass. 
Scholars  think  it  was  used  for  tournaments 
in  the  days  of  chivalry,  but  no  one  rightly 


LAKES  AND  FELLS  OF  WORDSWORTH.  8 1 

knows  anything  about  it,  save  that  it  is 
old.  Not  far  from  this  bit  of  mysterious 
antiquity  the  road  winds  through  a quaint 
village  called  Tirril,  where,  in  the  Quaker 
burial-ground,  is  the  grave  of  an  unfor- 
tunate young  man,  Charles  Gough,  who 
lost  his  life  by  falling  from  the  Striding 
Edge  of  Helvellyn  in  1805,  and  whose 
memory  is  hallowed  by  Wordsworth  and 
Scott,  in  poems  that  almost  every  school- 
boy has  read,  and  could  never  forget — asso- 
ciated as  they  are  with  the  story  of  the 
faithful  dog  for  three  months  in  that  lone- 
some wilderness  vigilant  beside  the  dead 
body  of  his  master, 

“ A lofty  precipice  in  front, 

A silent  tarn  below.” 

Patter  dale  possesses  this  advantage  over 
certain  other  towns  and  hamlets  of  the  lake 
region — that  it  is  not  much  frequented  by 
tourists.  The  coach  does  indeed  roll  through 
it  at  intervals,  laden  with  those  miscel- 
laneous, desultory  visitors  whose  pleasure 
it  is  to  rush  wildly  over  the  land.  And 
these  objects  serve  to  remind  you  that  now, 
even  as  in  Wordsworth’s  time,  and  in  a 
double  sense,  ‘ ‘ the  world  is  too  much  with 
us.”  But  an  old-fashioned  inn  (Kidd’s 

F 


82 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


Hotel)  still  exists  at  the  head  of  Ullswater, 
to  which  fashion  has  not  resorted,  and  where 
kindness  presides  over  the  traveller’s  com- 
fort. Close  by  also  is  a sweet  nook  called 
Glenridding,  where,  if  you  are  a lover  of 
solitude  and  peace,  you  may  find  an  ideal 
abode.  One  house  wherein  lodging  may  be 
had  was  literally  embowered  in  roses  on 
that  summer  evening  when  first  I strolled 
by  the  fragrant  hay -fields  on  the  Patterdale 
shore  of  Ullswater.  The  rose  flourishes  in 
wonderful  luxuriance  and  profusion  through- 
out Westmoreland  and  Cumberland.  As 
you  drive  along  the  lonely  roads  your  way 
will  sometimes  be,  for  many  miles,  between 
hedges  that  are  bespangled  with  wild  roses 
and  with  the  silver  globes  of  the  laurel 
blossom,  while  all  around  you  the  lonely 
mountains,  bare  of  foliage  save  for  matted 
grass  and  a dense  growth  of  low  ferns,  tower 
to  meet  the  clouds. 

It  is  a wild  place,  and  yet  there  is  a per- 
vading spirit  of  refinement  over  it  all — 
as  if  Nature  had  here  wrought  her  wonders 
in  the  mood  of  the  finest  art.  And  at  the 
same  time  it  is  a place  of  infinite  variety. 
The  whole  territory  occupied  by  the  lakes 
and  mountains  of  this  famous  district  is  not 
more  than  fifty  miles  square ; yet  within 


LAKES  AND  FELLS  OF  WORDSWORTH.  83 

this  limit,  comparatively  narrow,  are  com- 
prised all  possible  beauties  of  land  and 
water  that  the  most  passionate  devotee  of 
natural  loveliness  could  desire. 

My  first  night  in  Patterdale  was  one  of 
such  tempest  as  sometimes  rages  in  America 
about  the  time  of  the  fall  equinox.  The 
wind  shook  the  building.  It  was  long  after 
midnight  when  I went  to  rest,  and  the 
storm  seemed  to  increase  in  fury  as  the 
night  wore  on.  Torrents  of  rain  were 
dashed  against  the  windows.  Great  trees 
near  by  creaked  and  groaned  beneath  the 
strength  of  the  gale.  The  cold  was  so 
severe  that  blankets  were  welcome.  It  was 
my  first  night  in  Wordsworth’s  country,  and 
I thought  of  Wordsworth’s  lines  : — 

“ There  was  a roaring  in  the  wind  all  night ; 

The  rain  came  heavily  and  fell  in  floods.” 

The  next  morning  was  sweet  with  sun 
shine  and  gay  with  birds  and  flowers,  and 
all  semblance  of  storm  and  trouble  seemed 
banished  for  ever. 

4 ‘ But  now  the  sun  is  shining  calm  and  bright, 

And  birds  are  singing  in  the  distant  woods.” 

Wordsworth’s  poetry  expresses  the  inmost 
soul  of  these  lovely  lakes  and  mighty  hills, 
and  no  writer  can  hope  to  tread,  save  re- 


84  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

motely  and  with  reverent  humility,  in  the 
footsteps  of  that  magician.  You  understand 
Wordsworth  better,  however,  and  you  love 
him  more  dearly,  for  having  rambled  over 
his  own  consecrated  ground.  There  was 
not  a day  when  I did  not,  in  some  shape  or 
another,  meet  with  his  presence.  When- 
ever I was  alone  his  influence  came  upon 
me  as  something  unspeakably  majestic  and 
solemn.  Once,  on  a Sunday  afternoon,  I 
climbed  to  the  topmost  height  of  Place  Fell 
(which  is  2154  feet  above  the  sea-level, 
while  Scawfell  Pike  is  3210,  and  Helvellyn 
is  3118),  and  there,  in  the  short  space  of 
two  hours,  I was  thrice  cut  off  by  rain- 
storms from  all  view  of  the  world  beneath. 
Not  a tree  could  I find  on  that  mountain- 
top,  nor  any  place  of  shelter  from  the  blast 
and  the  rain — except  when  crouching  beside 
the  mound  of  rock  at  its  summit,  which  in 
that  country  they  call  a “man.”  Not  a 
living  creature  was  visible,  save  now  and 
then  a lonely  sheep,  who  stared  at  me  for  a 
moment  and  then  scurried  away.  But  when 
skies  cleared  and  the  cloudy  squadrons  of 
the  storm  went  careering  over  Helvellyn,  I 
looked  down  into  no  less  than  fifteen  valleys 
beautifully  coloured  by  the  foliage  and  the 
patches  of  cultivated  land,  each  vale  being 


LAKES  AND  FELLS  OF  WORDSWORTH.  85 

sparsely  fringed  with  little  gray  stone 
dwellings  that  seemed  no  more  than  card- 
houses,  in  those  appalling  depths.  You 
think  of  Wordsworth  in  such  a place  as  that 
— if  you  know  his  poetry.  You  cannot 
choose  but  think  of  him. 

“ Who  comes  not  hither  ne’er  shall  know 
How  beautiful  the  world  below.” 

Yet  somehow  it  happened  that  whenever 
friends  joined  in  these  rambles  the  great 
poet  was  sure  to  dawn  upon  us  in  a comic 
way.  When  we  were  resting  on  the  bridge 
at  the  foot  of  “Brothers  Water,”  which  is 
a little  lake,  scarcely  more  than  a mountain 
tarn,  lying  between  Ullswater  and  the  Kirk- 
stone  Pass,  some  one  recalled  that  Words- 
worth had  once  rested  there  and  written  a 
poem  about  it.  We  were  not  all  as  devout 
admirers  of  the  bard  as  I am,  and  certainly 
it  is  not  every  one  of  that  great  author’s 
compositions  that  a lover  of  his  genius 
would  wish  to  hear  quoted  under  such 
circumstances.  The  “Brothers  Water” 
poem  is  the  one  that  begins  ‘ * The  cock  is 
crowing,  the  stream  is  flowing,”  and  I do 
not  think  that  its  insipidity  is  much  relieved 
by  its  famous  picture  of  the  grazing  cattle, 
“forty  feeding  like  one.”  Henry  Irving, 


86 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


not  much  given  to  enthusiasm  about  Words- 
worth, heard  those  lines  with  undisguised 
merriment,  and  made  a capital  travesty  of 
them  on  the  spot.  It  is  significant  to 
remember,  with  reference  to  the  inequality 
of  Wordsworth,  that  on  the  day  before  he 
wrote  ‘‘The  cock  is  crowing,”  and  at  a 
place  but  a short  distance  from  the  Brothers 
Water  bridge,  he  had  written  that  peerless 
lyric  about  the  daffodils — “I  wandered 
lonely  as  a cloud.”  Gowbarrow  Park  is  the 
scene  of  that  poem — a place  of  ferns  and 
hawthorns,  notable  for  containing  Lyulph’s 
Tower,  a romantic,  ivy-clad  lodge  owned 
by  the  Duke  of  Norfolk — and  Aira  Force,  a 
waterfall  much  finer  than  Lodore.  Upon 
the  lake  shore  in  Gowbarrow  Park  you  may 
still  see  the  daffodils  as  Wordsworth  saw 
them,  a golden  host,  “glittering  and  danc- 
ing in  the  breeze.”  No  one  but  a true  poet 
could  have  made  that  perfect  lyric,  with  its 
delicious  close  : — 

“ For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  : 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils.” 

The  third  and  fourth  lines  were  written  by 


LAKES  AND  FELLS  OF  WORDSWORTH.  87 

the  poet’s  wife — and  they  shew  that  she  was 
not  a poet’s  wife  in  vain.  It  must  have  been 
in  his  “vacant  mood”  that  he  rested  and 
wrote  on  the  bridge  at  Brothers  Water. 
“I  saw  Wordsworth  often  when  I was 
a child,”  Frank  Marshall1  said  (who  had 
joined  us  at  Penrith) ; “he  used  to  come  to 
my  father’s  house,  Patterdale  Hall,  and 
once  I was  sent  to  the  garden  by  Mrs. 
Wordsworth  to  call  him  to  supper.  He 
was  musing  there,  I suppose.  He  had  a 
long  horse-like  face.  I don’t  think  I liked 
him.  I said,  ‘Your  wife  wants  you.’  He 
looked  down  at  me,  and  he  answered,  ‘ My 
boy,  you  should  say  Mrs.  Wordsworth,  and 
not  “ your  wife.”  ’ I looked  up  at  him,  and 
I replied,  ‘ She  is  your  wife,  isn’t  she  ? ’ 
Whereupon  he  said  no  more.  I don’t  think 
he  liked  me  either.”  We  were  going  up 
Kirkstone  Pass  when  Marshall  told  this 
story — which  seemed  to  bring  the  pensive 
and  homely  poet  plainly  before  us.  An 
hour  later  at  the  top  of  the  pass,  while  wait- 
ing in  the  old  inn  called  ‘ ‘ The  Travellers’ 
Rest,”  which  incorrectly  proclaims  itself  the 

1 F.  A.  Marshall,  editor  of  the  Henry  Irving  edition 
of  Shakespeare , and  author  of  A Study  of  Hamlet , 
the  comedy  of  False  Shame , and  many  other  works, 
died  in  London,  December  1889,  much  lamented. 


88 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


highest  inhabited  house  in  England — it  is 
1481  feet  above  the  sea-level — I spoke 
with  an  ancient,  weather-beaten  hostler,  not 
wholly  unfamiliar  with  the  medicinal  virtue 
of  ardent  spirits,  and  asked  for  his  opinion 
of  the  great  Lake  Poet.  They  all  know 
him  in  that  region.  “Well,'5  he  said, 
“people  are  alwTays  talking  about  Words- 
worth, but  I don’t  see  much  in  it.  I ’ve 
read  it,  but  I don’t  care  for  it.  It ’s  dry 
stuff — it  don’t  chime.”  Truly  there  are  all 
sorts  of  views,  just  as  there  are  all  sorts  of 
people. 

Mementos  of  Wordsworth  are  frequently 
encountered  by  the  traveller  among  these 
lakes  and  fells.  One  of  these,  situated  at 
the  foot  of  Place  Fell,  is  a rustic  cottage 
that  the  poet  once  selected  for  his  residence, 
and  partly  purchased.  It  somewhat  re- 
sembles the  Shakespeare  cottage  at  Strat- 
ford— the  living-room  being  floored  with 
stone  slabs,  irregular  in  size  and  shape  and 
mostly  broken  by  hard  use.  In  a corner  of 
the  kitchen  stands  a fine  carved  oak  cup- 
board, dark  with  age,  inscribed  with  the 
date  of  the  Merry  Monarch,  1660. 

What  were  the  sights  of  those  sweet  days 
that  linger  still,  and  will  always  linger,  in 
my  remembrance  ? A ramble  in  the  old 


LAKES  AND  FELLS  OF  WORDSWORTH.  89 

park  of  Patterdale  Hall,  which  is  full  of 
American  trees  ; a golden  morning  in  Dove- 
dale,  with  Henry  Irving,  much  like  Jaques , 
reclined  upon  a shaded  rock,  half-way  up 
the  mountain,  musing  and  moralising  in 
his  sweet,  kind  way,  beside  the  brawling 
stream  ; the  first  prospect  of  Windermere, 
from  above  Ambleside — a vision  of  heaven 
upon  earth  ; the  drive  by  Rydal  Water, 
which  has  all  the  loveliness  of  celestial  pic- 
tures seen  in  dreams  ; the  glimpse  of  stately 
Rydal  Hall  and  of  the  sequestered  Rydal 
Mount,  where  Wordsworth  so  long  lived, 
and  where  he  died ; the  Wishing  Gate, 
where  one  of  us,  I know,  wished  in  his 
heart  that  he  could  be  young  again  and  be 
wiser  than  to  waste  his  youth  in  self-willed 
folly  ; the  restful  hours  of  observation  and 
thought  at  delicious  Grasmere,  where  we 
stood  in  silence  at  Wordsworth’s  grave  and 
heard  the  murmur  of  Rotha  singing  at  his 
feet ; the  lovely  drive  past  Matterdale,  across 
the  moorlands,  with  only  clouds  and  rooks  for 
our  chance  companions,  and  mountains  for 
sentinels  along  our  way  ; the  ramble  through 
Keswick,  all  golden  and  glowing  in  the 
afternoon  sun,  till  we  stood  by  Crosthwaite 
Church  and  read  the  words  of  commemoration 
that  grace  the  tomb  of  Robert  Southey  ; the 


90  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

divine  circuit  of  Derwent — surely  the  love- 
liest sheet  of  water  in  England  ; the  descent 
into  the  vale  of  Keswick,  with  sunset  on  the 
rippling  crystal  of  the  lake  and  the  perfume 
of  countless  wild  roses  on  the  evening  wind. 
These  things,  and  the  midnight  talk  about 
these  things — Irving,  so  tranquil,  so  gentle, 
so  full  of  keen  and  sweet  appreciation  of 
them — Bendali,  so  bright  and  thoughtful — 
Marshall,  so  quaint  and  jolly,  and  so  full  of 
knowledge  equally  of  nature  and  of  books  ! 
— can  never  be  forgotten.  In  one  heart  they 
are  cherished  for  ever. 

Wordsworth  is  buried  in  Grasmere  church- 
yard, close  by  the  wall,  on  the  bank  of  the 
little  river  Rotha.  “Sing  him  thy  best,” 
said  Matthew  Arnold,  in  his  lovely  dirge 
for  the  great  poet — 

“ Sing  him  thy  best  ! for  few  or  none 
Hears  thy  voice  right,  now  he  is  gone.” 

In  the  same  grave  with  Wordsworth  sleeps 
his  devoted  wife.  Beside  them  rest  the  poet’s 
no  less  devoted  sister  Dorothy  (who  died  at 
Rydal  Mount  in  1855,  aged  83),  and  his 
favourite  daughter,  Dora,  together  with  her 
husband,  Edward  Quillinan,  of  whom  Arnold 
wrote  so  tenderly  : — 

“ Alive,  we  would  have  changed  his  lot, 

We  would  not  change  it  now.” 


LAKES  AND  FELLS  OF  WORDSWORTH.  91 

On  the  low  gravestone  that  marks  the 
sepulchre  of  Wordsworth  are  written  these 
words:  “William  Wordsworth,  1850.  Mary 
Wordsworth,  1859.”  In  the  neighbouring 
church  a marble  tablet  on  the  wall  presents 
this  inscription  : — 

“To  the  memory  of  William  Wordsworth. 
A true  poet  and  philosopher,  who  by  the  special 
gift  and  calling  of  Almighty  God,  whether  he 
discoursed  on  man  or  nature,  failed  not  to  lift 
ap  the  heart  to  holy  things,  tired  not  of  main- 
taining the  cause  of  the  poor  and  simple,  and  so 
in  perilous  times  was  raised  up  to  be  a chief 
minister,  not  only  of  noblest  poetry,  but  of  high 
and  sacred  truth.  The  memorial  is  raised  here 
by  his  friends  and  neighbours,  in  testimony 
of  respect,  affection,  and  gratitude.  Anno 
MDCCCLI.” 

A few  steps  from  this  memorable  group 
will  bring  you  to  the  marble  cross  that 
marks  the  resting-place  of  Hartley  Cole- 
ridge, son  of  the  great  author  of  “The  An- 
cient Mariner,”  himself  a poet  of  exquisite 
genius  ; and  close  by  is  a touching  memorial 
to  the  gifted  man  who  inspired  Matthew 
Arnold’s  poems  of  “The  Scholar-Gipsy” 
and  “Thyrsis.”  This  is  a slab  laid  upon 
his  mother’s  grave,  at  the  foot  of  her  own 
tombstone,  inscribed  with  these  words  : — 


92  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

“In  memory  of  Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  some 
time  Fellow  of  Oriel  College,  Oxford,  the  beloved 
son  of  James  Butler  and  Anne  Clough.  This 
remembrance  in  his  own  country  is  placed  on 
his  mother’s  grave  by  those  to  whom  life  was 
made  happy  by  his  presence  and  his  love.  He 
is  buried  in  the  Swiss  cemetery  at  Florence, 
where  he  died,  November  13,  1861,  aged  42. 

1 So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold 
I see  thee  what  thou  art,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below, 

Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old.’ 

Southey  rests  in  Crosthwaite  churchyard, 
about  half  a mile  north  of  Keswick,  where 
he  died.  They  show  you  Greta  Hall,  a fine 
mansion  on  a little  hill  enclosed  in  tall  trees, 
which  for  forty  years,  ending  in  1843,  was 
the  poet’s  home.  In  the  church  is  a marble 
figure  of  Southey,  recumbent  on  a large 
stone  pedestal,  which  does  no  justice  to  his 
great  personal  beauty.  His  grave  is  in  the 
ground,  a little  way  from  the  church,  marked 
by  a low  flat  tomb,  on  the  end  of  which  ap- 
pears an  inscription  commemorative  of  an 
old  servant  who  had  lived  fifty  years  in  his 
family  and  is  buried  with  him.  There  was 
a pretty  scene  at  this  grave.  When  I came 
near  it  Irving  was  already  there,  and  was 
speaking  to  a little  girl  who  had  guided  him 


LAKES  AND  FELLS  OF  WORDSWORTH.  93 

to  the  spot.  “If  any  one  were  to  give  you 
a shilling,  my  dear,”  he  said,  “what  would 
you  do  with  it  ? ” The  child  was  con- 
fused, and  she  murmured  softly,  “I  don’t 
know,  sir.”  “Well,”  he  continued,  “if 
any  one  were  to  give  you  two  shillings,  what 
would  you  do  with  it  ? ” She  said  she  would 
save  it.  “But  what  if  it  were  three  shil- 
lings ? ” he  went  on,  and  every  time  he 
spoke  he  dropped  a silver  coin  into  her 
hand,  till  he  must  have  given  her  more  than 
a dozen  of  them.  “ Four — five — six — seven 
— what  would  you  do  with  the  money?” 
“I  would  give  it  to  my  mother,  sir,”  she 
answered  at  last,  her  little  face  all  smiles, 
gazing  up  at  the  stately,  sombre  stranger, 
whose  noble  countenance  never  looked  more 
radiant  than  it  did  then,  with  gentle 
kindness  and  pleasure.  It  is  a trifle  to 
speak  of,  but  it  was  touching  in  its  simpli- 
city; and  that  amused  group  around  the 
grave  of  Southey,  in  the  blaze  of  the  golden 
sun  of  a July  afternoon,  with  Skiddaw  loom- 
ing vast  and  majestic  over  all,  will  linger 
with  me  as  long  as  anything  lovely  and  of 
good  report  is  treasured  in  my  memory. 
Long  after  we  had  left  the  place  I chanced 
to  speak  of  its  peculiar  interest.  “ The 
most  interesting  thing  I saw  there,”  said 


94  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

Irving,  “was  that  sweet  child. ” I do  not 
think  the  great  actor  was  ever  much  im- 
pressed with  the  beauties  of  the  Lake 
Poets. 

Another  picture  glimmers  across  my 
dream — a picture  of  peace  and  happiness 
which  may  close  this  rambling  remini- 
scence of  gentle  days.  We  had  driven  up 
the  pass  between  Glencoin  and  Gowbarrow, 
and  had  reached  Matterdale,  on  our  way 
toward  Troutbeck  station — not  the  beauti- 
ful Windermere  Troutbeck,  but  the  less 
famous  one.  The  road  is  lonely,  but  at 
Matterdale  one  sees  a few  houses,  and  there 
our  gaze  was  attracted  by  a small  gray 
church  nestled  in  a hollow  of  the  hillside. 
It  stands  sequestered  in  its  little  place  of 
graves,  with  bright  greensward  around  it 
and  a few  trees.  A faint  sound  of  organ 
music  floated  from  this  sacred  building  and 
seemed  to  deepen  the  hush  of  the  summer 
wind  and  shed  a holier  calm  upon  the  lovely 
solitude.  We  dismounted  and  softly  en- 
tered the  church.  A youth  and  a maiden, 
apparently  lovers,  were  sitting  at  the  organ 
— the  young  fellow  playing  and  the  girl 
listening,  and  looking  with  tender  trust  and 
innocent  affection  into  his  face.  He  recog- 
nised our  presence  with  a kindly  nod,  but 


LAKES  AND  FELLS  OF  WORDSWORTH.  95 

went  on  with  his  anthem.  I do  not  think 
she  saw  us  at  all.  The  place  was  full  of  soft, 
warm  light  streaming  through  the  stained 
glass  of  Gothic  windows  and  fragrant  with 
perfume  floating  from  the  hay-fields  and  the 
dew-drenched  roses  of  many  a neighbouring 
hedge.  Not  a word  was  spoken,  and  after 
a few  moments  we  departed  as  silently  as 
we  had  come.  Those  lovers  will  never  know 
what  eyes  looked  upon  them  that  day,  what 
hearts  were  comforted  with  the  sight  of  their 
happiness,  or  how  a careworn  man,  three 
thousand  miles  away,  fanning  upon  his 
hearthstone  the  dying  embers  of  hope,  now 
thinks  of  them  with  tender  sympathy,  and 
murmurs  a blessing  on  the  gracious  scene 
which  their  presence  so  much  endeared. 


VII. 


SHAKESPEARE  RELICS  AT  WORCESTER. 

WORCESTER,  July  23,’  1889.— 
The  present  wanderer  came  lately 
to  4 ‘the  Faithful  City,”  and  these  words 
are  written  in  a midnight  hour  at  the  Uni- 
corn Hotel.  This  place  is  redolent  of  the 
wars  of  the  Stuarts,  and  the  moment  you 
enter  it  your  mind  is  filled  with  the  pre- 
sence of  Charles  the  Martyr,  Charles  the 
Merry,  Prince  Rupert,  and  Oliver  Cromwell. 
From  the  top  of  Red  Hill  and  the  margin  of 
Perry  Wood — now  sleeping  in  the  starlight 
or  momentarily  vocal  with  the  rustle  of 
leaves  and  the  note  of  half -awakened  birds 
— Cromwell  looked  down  over  the  ancient 
walled  city  which  he  had  beleaguered.  Upon 
the  summit  of  the  great  tower  of  Worcester 
cathedral  Charles  and  Rupert  held  their 
last  council  of  war.  Here  was  fought  and 
lost  (1651)  the  battle  that  made  the  merry 
monarch  a hunted  fugitive  and  an  exile. 
With  a stranger’s  interest  I have  rambled  on 

96 


SHAKESPEARE  RELICS  AT  WORCESTER.  97 

those  heights ; traversed  the  battlefield ; 
walked  in  every  part  of  the  cathedral  ; 
attended  divine  service  there ; revelled 
in  the  antiquities  of  Edgar  Tower ; roamed 
through  most  of  the  city  streets ; traced 
all  that  can  be  traced  of  the  old  wall — 
there  is  little  remaining  of  it  now,  and 
no  part  that  can  be  walked  upon  ; explored 
the  Royal  Porcelain  Works,  for  which  Wor- 
cester is  rightly  famous ; viewed  several 
of  its  old  churches  and  its  one  theatre  (in 
Angel  Street) ; entered  its  Guildhall,  where 
they  preserve  a fine  piece  of  artillery  and 
nine  suits  of  black  armour  that  were  left 
by  Charles  II.  when  he  fled  from  Wor- 
cester ; paced  the  dusty  and  empty  Trinity 
Hall,  now  abandoned  and  condemned  to 
demolition,  where  once  Queen  Elizabeth 
was  feasted;  and  visited  the  old  “Com- 
mandery  ” — a rare  piece  of  antiquity,  re- 
maining from  the  tenth  century — wherein 
the  Duke  of  Hamilton  died  of  his  wounds, 
after  Cromwell’s  “crowning  mercy,”  and 
beneath  the  floor  of  which  he  was  laid  in  a 
temporary  grave.  The  Commandery  is  now 
owned  and  occupied  by  a printer  of  direc- 
tories and  guide-books  (the  genial  and 
hospitable  Mr.  Littlebury),  and  here,  as 
everywhere  else  in  storied  Worcester,  the 


9$  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

arts  of  peace  prevail  over  all  the  scenes  and 
all  the  traces  of 

“ Old,  unhappy,  far-off  things 
And  battles  long  ago.5' 

In  the  Edgar  Tower  at  Worcester  they 
keep  the  original  of  the  marriage-bond  that 
was  given  as  a preliminary  to  the  marriage 
of  William  Shakespeare  and  Anne  Hatha- 
way, by  Fulk  Sandells  and  John  Richard- 
son, of  Shottery.  It  is  a long,  narrow 
strip  of  parchment,  and  it  has  been  glazed 
and  framed.  Two  seals  of  light-coloured 
wax  were  originally  attached  to  it,  de- 
pendent by  strings,  but  these  were  removed 
— apparently  for  the  convenience  of  the 
mechanic  who  put  this  relic  into  its  present 
frame.  The  handwriting  is  crabbed  and 
obscure.  There  are  but  few  persons  who 
can  read  the  handwriting  in  old  documents 
of  this  kind,  and  thousands  of  such  docu- 
ments exist  in  the  church-archives,  and 
elsewhere  in  England,  that  have  never 
been  examined.  The  name  of  Hathaway 
in  this  marriage-bond  resembles  the  name 
of  Whateley.  The  contract  vouches  that 
there  was  no  impediment,  through  con- 
sanguinity or  otherwise,  to  the  marriage  of 
William  Shakespeare  and  Anne  Hathaway. 


SHAKESPEARE  RELICS  AT  WORCESTER.  99 

It  was  executed  on  November  28,  1582,  and 
it  is  supposed  that  the  marriage  took  place 
immediately  — since  the  first  child  of  it, 
Susanna  Shakespeare,  was  baptized  in  the 
Church  of  the  Holy  Trinity  at  Stratford 
on  May  26,  1583.  No  registration  of  the 
marriage  has  been  found,  but  that  is  no 
proof  that  it  does  not  exist.  The  law  in 
those  days  prescribed  that  the  marriage- 
bond  should  designate  three  parishes  within 
the  residential  diocese,  in  any  one  of  which 
the  marriage  might  be  made ; but  the 
custom  in  those  days  permitted  the  con- 
tracting parties,  when  they  had  complied 
with  this  legal  requirement,  to  be  married 
in  whatever  parish,  within  the  diocese,  they 
might  prefer.  Three  parishes  were  named 
in  the  Shakespeare  marriage-bond.  The 
registers  of  two  of  them  have  been  searched, 
and  searched  in  vain.  The  register  of  the 
third — that  of  Luddington,  which  is  close  by 
Shottery — was  destroyed  long  ago,  in  a fire 
that  burnt  down  Luddington  Church  ; and 
conjecture  therefore  assumes  that  Shake- 
speare was  married  at  Luddington.  It 
may  be  so,  but  there  is  no  certainty  about 
it,  and  until  every  old  church  register  in 
the  ancient  diocese  of  Worcester  has  been 
examined,  the  quest  of  the  registration  of 


IOO 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


his  marriage  ought  not  to  be  abandoned. 
Richard  Savage,  the  learned  and  diligent 
librarian  of  the  Shakespeare  Birthplace,  has 
long  been  occupied  with  this  inquiry,  and 
has  transcribed  several  of  the  old  church 
registers  in  the  vicinity  of  Stratford.  The 
Rev.  Mr.  Wadley,  another  local  antiquary 
of  great  learning  and  incessant  industry,  has 
also  taken  part  in  this  labour.  The  long-de- 
sired entry  of  the  marriage  of  William  and 
Anne  remains  undiscovered,  but  one  grati- 
fying and  valuable  result  of  these  investiga- 
tions is  the  disclosure  that  many  of  the  names 
used  in  Shakespeare’s  works  are  the  names  of 
persons  who  were  residents  of  Warwickshire 
in  his  time.  It  has  pleased  various  crazy 
sensation-mongers  to  ascribe  the  authorship 
of  Shakespeare’s  writings  to  Francis  Bacon. 
This  could  only  be  done  by  ignoring  positive 
evidence — the  evidence,  namely,  of  Ben 
•Jonson,  who  knew  Shakespeare  personally, 
and  who  has  left  a written  description  of 
the  manner  in  which  Shakespeare  composed 
his  plays.  Effrontery  was  to  be  expected 
from  the  advocates  of  the  preposterous 
Bacon  theory  ; but  when  they  have  ignored 
the  positive  evidence,  and  the  internal 
evidence,  and  the  circumstantial  evidence, 
and  every  o^-her  sort  of  evidence,  they  have 


SHAKESPEARE  RELICS  AT  WORCESTER.  IOl 


still  a serious  obstacle  to  surmount — an 
obstacle  which  the  researches  of  such 
patient  scholars  as  Mr.  Savage  and  Mr. 
Wadley  are  strengthening  day  by  day.  The 
man  who  wrote  Shakespeare’s  plays  knew 
Warwickshire  as  it  could  only  be  known  to 
a native  of  it ; and  there  is  no  proof  that 
Bacon  knew  it  or  ever  was  in  it. 

With  reference  to  the  Shakespeare  Mar- 
riage-Bond, and  with  reference  to  all  the 
records  that  are  kept  in  the  Edgar  Tower 
at  Worcester,  it  should  perhaps  be  said  that 
they  are  not  preserved  with  the  scrupulous 
care  to  which  such  treasures  are  entitled. 
The  Tower — a gray  and  venerable  relic,  an 
ancient  gate  of  the  monastery,  dating  back 
to  the  time  of  King  John — affords  an 
appropriate  receptacle  for  these  documents  ; 
but  it  would  not  withstand  fire,  and  it  does 
not  contain  either  a fire-proof  chamber  or 
a safe.  The  Shakespeare  Marriage-Bond — 
which  assuredly  ought  to  be  in  the  Shake- 
speare Birthplace,  at  Stratford — was  taken 
from  the  floor  of  a closet,  where  it  had  been 
lying,  together  with  a number  of  dusty 
books,  and  I was  kindly  permitted  to  hold 
it  in  my  hands  and  to  examine  it.  The 
frame  provided  for  this  priceless  relic  is 
such  as  you  may  see  on  an  ordinary  school 


102 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


slate.  From  another  dusty  closet  an  atten- 
dant extricated  a Manuscript  Diary  kept  by 
Bishop  Lloyd,  of  Worcester,  and  by  his 
manservant,  for  several  years,  about  the 
beginning  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne  ; and 
in  this  are  many  quaint  and  humorous 
entries,  valuable  to  the  student  of  history 
and  manners.  In  still  another  closet, 
having  the  appearance  of  a rubbish-bin,  I 
saw  heaps  upon  heaps  of  old  parchment  and 
paper  writings — a mass  of  antique  registry 
that  it  would  need  the  labour  of  several 
years  to  examine,  decipher,  and  classify. 
Worcester  is  especially  rich  in  old  records, 
and  it  is  not  impossible  that  the  missing 
clew  to  Shakespeare’s  marriage  may  yet  be 
found  on  this  spot — where  nobody  has 
expected  to  find  it. 

Worcester  is  rich  also  in  a superb  library, 
which,  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Hooper,  the 
custodian,  I was  allowed  to  explore,  high 
up  beneath  the  roof  of  the  lovely  cathedral. 
This  collection  of  books,  numbering  at  least 
five  thousand,  consists  mostly  of  folios,  many 
of  which  were  printed  in  France.  They 
keep  it  in  a long,  low,  oak-timbered  room, 
the  triforium  of  the  south  aisle  of  the  nave. 
The  approach  is  by  a circular  stone  stair- 
case. In  an  anteroom  to  the  library  I saw 


SHAKESPEARE  RELICS  AT  WORCESTER.  10' 


a part  of  the  ancient  north  door  of  this 
church,  about  half  of  it — a fragment  dating 
back  to  the  time  of  Bishop  Wakefield,  1386 
— to  which  is  still  affixed  a piece  of  the  skin 
of  a human  being.  The  tradition  is  that  a 
Dane  committed  sacrilege  by  stealing  the 
sanctus  bell  from  the  high  altar,  and  was 
thereupon  flayed  alive  for  his  crime,  and 
the  skin  of  him  was  fastened  to  the  cathe- 
dral door.  In  the  library  are  magnificent 
editions  of  Aristotle  and  other  classics  ; the 
works  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Church  ; a 
beautiful  illuminated  manuscript  of  Wick- 
liffe’s  New  Testament — written  on  vellum 
in  1381  ; and  several  books,  in  splendid 
preservation,  from  the  press  of  Caxton  and 
that  of  Wynken  de  Worde.  The  world 
moves  - — but  printing  is  not  better  done 
now  than  it  was  then.  This  library,  which 
is  for  the  use  of  the  clergy  of  the  Diocese  of 
Worcester,  was  founded  by  Bishop  Car- 
penter in  1461,  and  originally  was  stored 
in  the  chapel  of  the  charnel-house. 

Reverting  to  the  subject  of  old  documents, 
a useful  word  may  perhaps  be  said  here 
about  the  registers  in  Trinity  Church  at 
Stratford — documents  which,  in  a spirit  of 
disparagement,  have  sometimes  been  desig- 
nated as  “ copies.”  This  sort  of  pertness  in 


104  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

the  discussion  of  Shakespearean  subjects 
is  not  unnatural  in  days  when  fanatical 
zealots  are  allowed  freely  to  besmirch  the 
memory  of  Shakespeare,  in  their  wildly 
foolish  advocacy  of  what  they  call  the 
Bacon  theory  of  the  authorship  of  Shake- 
speare’s works.  The  facts  about  the  Strat- 
ford Registers,  as  here  set  down,  are  stated, 
by  one  who  has  many  times  held  them  in 
his  hands  and  explored  their  quaint  pages. 
Those  records  are  contained  in  twenty-two 
volumes.  They  begin  with  the  first  year  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  1558,  and  they  end,  as  to 
the  old  parchment  form,  in  1812.  From 
1558  to  1600  the  entries  were  made  in  a 
paper  book,  of  the  quarto  form,  still  occa- 
sionally to  be  found  in  ancient  parish 
churches  of  England.  In  1600  an  order-in- 
council was  made  commanding  that  those 
entries  should  be  copied  into  parchment  vol- 
umes, for  their  better  preservation.  This  was 
done.  The  parchment  volumes,  which  have 
been  freely  shown  to  me  by  my  good  friend 
William  Butcher,  the  parish  clerk  of  Strat- 
ford, date  back  to  1600.  The  handwriting 
of  the  copied  portion,  covering  the  period 
from  1558  to  1600,  is  careful  and  uniform. 
Each  page  is  certified,  as  to  its  accuracy,  by 
the  vicar  and  the  churchwardens.  After 


SHAKESPEARE  RELICS  AT  WORCESTER.  IO5 

1600  the  handwritings  vary.  In  the  register 
of  Marriage  a new  handwriting  appears  on 
September  17  that  year,  and  in  the  registers 
of  Baptism  and  Burial  it  appears  on  Sep- 
tember 20.  The  sequence  of  marriages  is 
complete  until  1756 ; that  of  baptisms  and 
burials  until  1812 ; when  in  each  case  a 
book  of  printed  forms  comes  into  use,  and 
the  expeditious  march  of  the  new  age  begins. 
The  entry  of  Shakespeare’s  baptism,  April 
26,  1564,  from  which  it  is  inferred  that  he 
was  born  on  April  23,  is  extant  as  a certified 
copy  from  the  earlier  paper  book.  The 
entry  of  Shakespeare’s  burial  is  the  original 
entry  made  in  the  original  register. 

Some  time  ago  an  American  writer  chose 
to  declare  that  Shakespeare’s  widow — seven 
years  his  senior  at  the  start,  and  therefore 
fifty-nine  years  old  when  he  died — subse- 
quently contracted  another  marriage.  Mrs. 
Shakespeare  survived  her  husband  seven 
years,  dying  at  the  age  of  sixty-six.  The 
entry  in  the  Stratford  register  of  burial 
contains,  against  the  date  of  1623,  August 
28,  the  names  of  “ Mrs.  Shakespeare  ” and 
“ Anna  uxor  Richard  James.”  These  two 
names,  written  one  above  the  other,  are 
connected  by  a bracket  on  the  left  side  ; 
and  this  is  supposed  to  be  evidence  that 


106  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

Shakespeare’s  widow  married  again.  The 
use  of  the  bracket  could  not  possibly  mis- 
lead anybody  possessing  the  faculty  of  clear 
vision.  When  two  or  more  persons  were 
baptized,  or  buried,  on  the  same  day,  the 
parish  clerk,  in  making  the  requisite  entry 
in  the  register,  connected  their  names  with 
a bracket.  Three  instances  of  this  practice 
occur  upon  a single  page  of  the  register,  in 
the  same  handwriting,  close  to  the  page  that 
records  the  burial,  on  the  same  day,  of  Mrs. 
Shakespeare,  widow,  and  Anna  the  wife  of 
Richard  James.  But  folly  needs  only  a 
slender  hook  on  which  to  hang  itself. 


VIII. 


BYRON  AND  HUCKNALL-TORKARD. 

ON  a night  in  1785,  when  Mrs.  Sicldons 
was  acting  at  Edinburgh,  the  play 
being  “ The  Fatal  Marriage  ” and  the  char- 
acter Isabella , a young  lady  of  Aberdeen- 
shire, Miss  Catherine  Gordon,  of  Gight,  was 
among  the  audience.  There  is  a point  in 
that  tragedy  at  which  Isabella  recognises 
her  first  husband,  whom  she  had  supposed 
to  be  dead,  and  in  whose  absence  she  had 
been  married  to  another,  and  her  conster- 
nation, grief,  and  rapture  are  sudden  and 
excessive.  Mrs.  Siddons,  at  that  point, 
always  made  a great  effect.  The  words 
are,  “ 0 my  Biron,  my  Biron  ! ” On  this 
night,  at  the  moment  when  the  wonderful 
actress  sent  forth  her  wailing  and  heart- 
piercing cry,  as  she  uttered  those  words, 
Miss  Gordon  gave  a frantic  scream,  fell  into 
violent  hysterics,  and  was  borne  out  of 
the  theatre,  repeating,  “O  my  Biron,  my 
Biron  ! ” At  the  time  of  this  incident  she 

107 


io8 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


had  not  met  the  man  by  whom  she  was 
afterward  wedded — the  Hon.  John  Byron, 
whose  wife  she  became  about  a year  later. 
Their  first-born  and  only  child  was  George 
Gordon,  afterward  Lord  Byron,  the  poet ; 
and  among  the  many  aspects  of  his  life 
which  impress  the  thoughtful  reader  of  that 
strange  and  melancholy  story  none  is  more 
striking  than  the  dramatic  aspect  of  it — so 
strangely  prefigured  in  this  event. 

Censure  of  Byron,  whether  as  a man  or  as 
a writer,  may  be  considered  to  have  spent 
its  force.  It  is  a hundred  years  since  he 
was  born  (January  22,  1888),  and  almost  as 
many  since  he  died.  Everybody  who  wished 
to  say  a word  against  him  has  had  ample 
opportunity  for  saying  it,  and  there  is 
evidence  that  this  opportunity  has  not  been 
neglected.  The  record  was  long  ago  made 
up.  Everybody  knows  that  Byron’s  con- 
duct was  sometimes  deformed  with  frenzy 
and  stained  with  vice.  Everybody  knows 
that  Byron’s  writings  are  occasionally 
marred  with  profanity  and  licentiousness, 
and  that  they  contain  a quantity  of  crude 
verse.  If  he  had  never  been  married,  or  if, 
being  married,  his  domestic  life  had  not 
ended  in  disaster  and  scandal,  his  personal 
reputation  would  stand  higher  than  it  does 


BYRON  AND  HUCKNALL-TORKARD.  IO9 

at  present,  in  the  esteem  of  virtuous  society. 
If  about  one-third  of  what  he  wrote  had 
never  been  published,  his  reputation  as  a 
man  of  letters  would  stand  higher  than  it 
now  does  in  the  esteem  of  the  sternest 
judges  of  literary  art.  After  an  exhaustive 
discussion  of  the  subject  in  every  aspect  of 
it,  after  every  variety  of  hostile  assault,  and 
after  praise  sounded  in  every  key  of  en- 
thusiasm and  in  every  language  of  the 
world,  these  truths  remain.  It  is  a pity 
that  Byron  was  not  a virtuous  man  and  a 
good  husband.  It  is  a pity  that  he  was  not 
invariably  a scrupulous  literary  artist,  that 
he  wrote  so  much,  and  that  almost  every- 
thing he  wrote  was  published.  But,  when 
all  this  has  been  said,  it  remains  a solid 
and  immovable  truth  that  Byron  was  a 
great  poet,  and  that  he  continues  to  be  a 
great  power  in  the  literature  and  life  of  the 
world.  Nobody  who  pretends  to  read  any- 
thing omits  to  read  “Childe  Harold.” 

To  touch  this  complex  and  delicate  sub- 
ject in  only  a superficial  manner  it  may  not 
be  amiss  to  say  that  the  world  is  under 
obligation  to  Byron,  if  for  nothing  else, 
for  the  spectacle  of  a romantic,  impressive, 
and  instructive  life.  His  agency  in  that 
spectacle  no  doubt  was  involuntary,  but 


no 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


all  the  same  he  presented  it.  He  was  a 
great  poet ; a man  of  genius  ; his  faculty  of 
expression  was  colossal,  and  his  conduct 
was  absolutely  genuine.  Ho  man  in  litera- 
ture ever  lived  who  lived  himself  more 
fully.  His  assumptions  of  disguise  only 
made  him  more  obvious  and  transparent. 
He  kept  nothing  back.  His  heart  was  laid 
absolutely  bare.  We  know  even  more 
about  him  than  we  know  about  Dr.  Johnson 
— and  still  his  personality  endures  the  test 
of  our  knowledge  and  remains  unique, 
romantic,  fascinating,  prolific  of  moral  ad- 
monition, and  infinitely  pathetic.  Byron 
in  poetry,  like  Edmund  Kean  in  acting,  is  a 
figure  that  completely  fills  the  imagination, 
profoundly  stirs  the  heart,  and  never  ceases 
to  impress  and  charm,  even  while  it  afflicts, 
the  sensitive  mind.  This  consideration 
alone,  viewed  apart  from  the  obligation 
that  the  world  owes  to  the  better  part  of 
his  writings,  is  vastly  significant  of  the 
great  personal  force  that  is  inherent  in  the 
name  and  memory  of  Byron. 

It  has  been  considered  necessary  to  ac- 
count for  the  sadness  and  gloom  of  Byron’s 
poetry  by  representing  him  to  have  been  a 
criminal  afflicted  with  remorse  for  his  many 
and  hideous  crimes.  His  widow,  apparently 


BYRON  AND  HUCKNALL-TORKARD.  Ill 


a monomaniac,  after  long  brooding  over  the 
remembrance  of  a calamitous  married  life — 
brief  but  unhappy,  and  terminated  in  separa- 
tion — whispered  against  him,  and  against 
his  half-sister,  a vile  charge ; and  this,  to 
the  disgrace  of  American  literature,  was 
subsequently  brought  forward  by  a distin- 
guished female  writer  of  America,  much 
noted  for  her  works  of  fiction  and  especially 
memorable  for  this  one.  The  explanation 
of  the  mental  distress  exhibited  in  the  poet’s 
writings  was  thought  to  be  effectually  pro- 
vided in  that  disclosure.  But,  as  this  re- 
volting and  inhuman  story  — desecrating 
graves,  insulting  a wonderful  genius,  and 
casting  infamy  upon  the  name  of  an  affec- 
tionate, faithful,  virtuous  woman — fell  to 
pieces  the  moment  it  was  examined,  the 
student  of  Byron’s  grief-stricken  nature  re- 
mained no  wiser  than  before  this  figment  of 
a diseased  imagination  had  been  divulged. 
Surely,  however,  it  ought  not  to  be  con- 
sidered mysterious  that  Byron’s  poetry  is 
often  sad.  The  best  poetry  of  the  best 
poets  is  touched  with  sadness.  “ Hamlet” 
has  never  been  mistaken  for  a merry  pro- 
duction. “Macbeth”  and  “King  Lear’' 
do  not  commonly  produce  laughter.  Shelley 
and  Keats  sing  as  near  to  heaven’s  gate  as 


1 12 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


anybody,  and  both  of  them  are  essentially 
sad.  Scott  was  as  brave,  hopeful,  and  cheery 
as  any  poet  that  ever  lived,  and  Scott’s 
poetry  is  at  its  best  in  his  dirges.  The 
“ Elegy”  and  “ The  Ancient  Mariner”  cer- 
tainly are  great  poems,  but  neither  of  them 
is  festive.  Byron  often  wrote  sadly  because 
he  was  a man  of  a melancholy  temperament, 
and  because  he  deeply  felt  the  pathos  of 
mortal  life,  the  awful  mystery  with  which 
it  is  surrounded,  the  pain  with  which  it  is 
usually  attended,  the  tragedy  with  which  it 
commonly  is  accompanied,  the  frail  tenure 
with  which  its  loves  and  hopes  are  held, 
and  the  inexorable  death  with  which  it  is 
continually  environed  and  at  last  extin- 
guished. And  Byron  was  an  unhappy  man 
for  the  reason  that,  possessing  every  ele- 
mental natural  quality  in  excess,  his  ex- 
quisite goodness  was  constantly  outraged 
and  tortured  by  his  inordinate  evil.  The 
tempest,  the  clangour,  and  the  agony  of  his 
writings  are  denotements  of  the  struggle 
between  good  and  evil  that  was  perpetually 
afflicting  his  soul.  Had  he  been  the  wicked 
man  depicted  by  his  detractors,  he  would 
have  lived  a life  of  comfortable  depravity 
and  never  would  have  written  at  all. 
Monsters  do  not  suffer. 


BYRON  AND  HUCKNALL-TORKARD.  1 1 3 

The  true  appreciation  of  Byron  is  not  that 
of  youth  but  that  of  manhood.  Youth  is 
captured  by  his  pictorial  and  sentimental 
attributes.  Youth  beholds  him  as  a nautical 
Adonis,  standing  lonely  upon  a barren  cliff, 
and  gazing  at  a stormy  sunset  over  the 
HCgean  Sea.  Everybody  knows  that  fami- 
liar picture — with  the  wide,  open  collar, 
the  great  eyes,  the  wild  hair,  and  the  ample 
neckcloth  flowing  in  the  breeze.  It  is 
pretty,  but  it  is  not  like  the  real  man.  If 
ever  at  any  time  he  was  that  sentimental 
image,  he  speedily  outgrew  that  condition, 
just  as  those  observers  of  him  who  truly 
understand  Byron  have  long  outgrown  their 
juvenile  sympathy  with  that  frail  and  puny 
ideal  of  a great  poet.  Manhood  perceives  a 
different  individual,  and  is  captured  by  a 
different  attraction.  It  is  only  when  the 
first  extravagant  and  effusive  enthusiasm 
has  run  its  course,  and  perhaps  ended  in 
revulsion,  that  we  come  to  know  Byron  for 
what  he  is  really  worth,  and  to  feel  the 
tremendous  power  of  his  genius.  Senti- 
mental folly  has  commemorated  him  in  the 
margin  of  Hyde  Park  as  in  the  fancy  of 
many  a callow  youth  and  green  girl,  with 
the  statue  of  a pretty  sailor-lad  waiting  for 
a spark  from  heaven,  while  a big  Newfound- 

H 


1 14  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

land  dog  dozes  at  his  feet.  It  is  a caricature. 
Byron  was  a man,  and  terribly  in  earnest ; 
and  it  is  only  by  earnest  persons  that  his 
mind  and  works  are  understood.  At  this 
distance  of  time  the  scandals  of  a corrupt 
age,  equally  with  the  frailties  of  its  most 
brilliant  and  most  illustrious  poetical  genius, 
may  well  be  left  to  rest  in  the  oblivion  of 
the  grave.  The  generation  that  is  living  at 
the  close  of  the  nineteenth  century  will  re- 
member of  Byron  only  that  he  was  the  un- 
compromising friend  of  liberty  ; that  he  did 
much  to  emancipate  the  human  mind  from 
every  form  of  bigotry  and  tyranny  ; that  he 
augmented,  as  no  man  had  done  since 
Dryden,  the  power  and  flexibility  of  the 
noble  English  tongue  ; and  that  he  enriched 
literature  with  passages  of  poetry  which, 
for  sublimity,  beauty,  tenderness,  and  elo- 
quence, have  seldom  been  equalled  and  have 
never  been  excelled. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  a fragrant,  golden 
summer  day  (August  8,  1884)  when,  having 
driven  out  from  Nottingham,  I alighted  in 
the  market-place  of  the  little  town  of  Huck- 
nall-Torkard,  on  a pilgrimage  to  the  grave 
of  Byron.  The  town  is  modern,  common- 
place, almost  squalid  in  appearance — a little 
straggling  collection  of  low  brick  dwellings, 


BYRON  AND  HUCKNALL-TORKARD.  1 1 5 

mostly  occupied  by  colliers.  On  that  day 
it  appeared  at  its  worst ; for  the  widest 
part  of  its  main  street  was  filled  with  stalls, 
benches,  wagons,  and  canvas -covered  struc- 
tures for  the  display  of  vegetables  and  other 
commodities,  which  were  thus  offered  for 
sale  ; and  it  was  thronged  with  rough,  noisy, 
and  dirty  persons,  intent  on  barter  and 
traffic,  and  not  indisposed  to  boisterous 
pranks  and  mirth,  as  they  pushed  and 
jostled  each  other  among  the  crowded 
booths.  This  main  street  ends  at  the  wall 
of  the  graveyard  in  which  stands  the  little 
gray  church  where  Byron  was  buried. 
There  is  an  iron  gate  in  the  centre  of  the 
wall,  and  in  order  to  reach  this  it  was 
necessary  to  thread  the  mazes  of  the  mar- 
ket-place, and  to  push  aside  the  canvas 
flaps  of  a peddler’s  stall  which  had  been 
placed  close  against  it.  Next  to  the  church- 
yard wall  is  a little  cottage,1  with  its  bit  of 
garden,  devoted  in  this  instance  to  potatoes  ; 
and  here,  while  waiting  for  the  sexton,  I 
fell  into  talk  with  an  aged  man,  who  said 

1 Since  this  paper  was  written  the  buildings  that 
flanked  the  church  wall  have  been  removed,  the 
street  in  front  of  it  has  been  widened  into  a square, 
and  the  church  has  been  “ restored”  and  considerablv 
altered. 


Il6  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

that  he  remembered,  as  an  eye-witness,  the 
funeral  of  Byron. 

“ The  oldest  man  he  seemed  that  ever 
wore  gray  hairs.”  He  stated  that  he  was 
eighty-two,  and  that  his  name  was  William 
Callandyne.  Pointing  to  the  church,  he 
indicated  the  place  of  the  Byron  vault.  “ I 
was  the  last  man,”  he  said,  “that  went 
down  into  it  before  he  was  buried  there.  I 
was  a young  fellow  then,  and  curious  to  see 
w7hat  was  going  on.  The  place  was  full  of 
skulls  and  bones.  I wish  you  could  see  my 
son  ; he’s  a clever  lad,  only  he  ought  to 
have  more  of  the  suaviter  in  modo.  ” Thus 
with  the  garrulity  of  wandering  age  he 
prattled  on ; but  his  mind  was  clear  and 
his  memory  tenacious  and  positive.  There 
is  a good  prospect  from  the  region  of  Huck- 
nall-Torkard  Church,  and  pointing  into  the 
distance,  when  his  mind  had  been  brought 
back  to  the  subject  of  Byron,  my  venerable 
acquaintance  now  described,  with  minute 
specification  of  road  and  lane — seeming  to 
assume  that  the  names  and  the  turnings 
were  familiar  to  his  auditor — the  route 
of  the  funeral  train  from  Nottingham  to 
the  church.  “ There  were  eleven  car- 
riages,” he  said.  “They  didn’t  go  to  the 
Abbey  ” (meaning  Newstead),  “ but  came 


BYRON  AND  HUCKNALL-TORKARD.  1 1 7 

directly  here.  There  were  many  people  to 
look  at  them.  I remember  all  about  it,  and 
I ’m  an  old  man — eighty-two.  You  ’re  an 
Italian,  I should  say,”  he  added.  By  this 
time  the  sexton  had  come  and  unlocked  the 
gate,  and  parting  from  Mr.  Callandyne  we 
presently  made  our  way  into  the  Church  of 
St.  James,  locking  the  churchyard  gate 
behind  us  to  exclude  rough  and  possibly 
mischievous  followers.  A strange  and  sad 
contrast,  I thought,  between  this  coarse 
and  turbulent  place,  by  a malign  destiny 
ordained  for  the  grave  of  Byron,  and  that 
peaceful,  lovely,  majestic  church  and  pre- 
cinct at  Stratford-upon-Avon  which  en- 
shrine the  dust  of  Shakespeare  ! 

The  sexton  of  the  Church  of  St.  James 
and  the  parish  clerk  of  Hucknall-Torkard 
is,  or  was,  Mr.  John  Brown,  and  a man  of 
sympathetic  intelligence,  kind  heart,  and 
interesting  character  I found  him  to  be — 
large,  dark,  stalwart,  but  gentle  alike  in 
manner  and  feeling,  and  considerate  of  his 
visitors.  The  pilgrim  to  the  literary  shrines 
of  England  does  not  always  find  the  neigh- 
bouring inhabitants  either  sympathetic  with 
his  reverence  or  conscious  of  especial  sanctity 
or  interest  appertaining  to  the  relics  which 
they  possess ; but  honest  and  manly  John 


Il8  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

Brown  of  Hucknall-Torkard  understood 
both  the  hallowing  charm  of  the  place  and 
the  sentiment,  not  to  say  the  profound 
emotion,  of  the  traveller  who  now  beheld 
for  the  first  time  the  tomb  of  Byron.  This 
church  has  been  restored  and  altered  since 
Byron  was  buried  in  it  in  1824,  yet  in  the 
main  it  retains  its  fundamental  structure 
and  its  ancient  peculiarities.  The  tower, 
a fine  specimen  of  Norman  architecture, 
strongly  built,  dark  and  grim,  gives  indica- 
tion of  great  age.  It  is  of  a kind  often  met 
with  in  ancient  English  towns  : you  may  see 
its  own  brothers  at  York,  Shrewsbury,  Can- 
terbury, Worcester,  Warwick,  and  in  many 
places  sprinkled  over  the  northern  heights 
of  London  : but  amid  its  mean  surroundings 
in  this  little  colliery  settlement  it  looms 
with  a peculiar  frowning  majesty,  a certain 
bleak  loneliness,  both  unique  and  impressive. 
The  church  is  of  the  customary  crucial  form 
— a low  stone  structure,  peak-roofed  outside, 
but  arched  within,  the  roof  being  supported 
by  four  great  pillars  on  either  side  of  the 
centre  aisle,  and  the  ceiling  being  fashioned 
of  heavy  timbers  forming  almost  a true  arch 
above  the  nave.  There  are  four  large  win- 
dows on  each  side  of  the  church,  and  two  on 
each  side  of  the  chancel,  which  is  beneath  a 


BYRON  AND  HUCKNALL-TORKARD.  1 1 9 

roof  somewhat  lower  than  that  of  the  main 
building.  Under  the  pavement  of  the  chan- 
cel, and  back  of  the  altar  rail — at  which  it 
was  my  privilege  to  kneel  while  gazing  upon 
this  sacred  spot — is  the  grave  of  Byron.1 
Nothing  is  written  on  the  stone  that  covers 
his  sepulchre  except  the  simple  name  of 
BYRON,  with  the  dates  of  his  birth  and 
death,  in  brass  letters,  surrounded  by  a 
wreath  of  leaves  in  brass,  the  gift  of  the 
King  of  Greece  ; and  never  did  a name  seem 
more  stately  or  a place  more  hallowed. 
The  dust  of  the  poet  reposes  between  that  of 
his  mother  on  his  right  hand,  and  that 
of  his  Ada — “sole  daughter  of  my  house 
and  heart  ” — on  his  left.  The  mother 
died  on  August  1,  1811  ; the  daughter, 
who  had  by  marriage  become  the  Countess 
of  Lovelace,  in  1852.  “I  buried  her 
with  my  own  hands,”  said  the  sexton, 
John  Brown,  when,  after  a little  time,  he 
rejoined  me  at  the  altar  rail.  “ I told  them 
exactly  where  he  was  laid  when  they  wanted 
to  put  that  brass  on  the  stone ; I remem- 
bered it  well,  for  I lowered  the  coffin  of 

1 Revisiting  this  place  on  September  10, 1890, 1 found 
that  the  chancel  has  been  lengthened,  that  the  altar  and 
the  mural  tablets  have  been  moved  backward  from  the 
Byron  vault,  and  that  the  gravestone  is  now  outside 
of  the  rail. 


120 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


the  Countess  of  Lovelace  into  this  vault, 
and  laid  her  by  her  father’s  side.”  And, 
when  presently  we  went  into  a little  vestry, 
he  produced  the  Register  of  Burials  and 
displayed  the  record  of  that  interment  in 
the  following  words : “ 1852.  Died  at 
69  Cumberland  Place,  London.  Buried 
December  3.  Aged  thirty-six.  — Curtis 
Jackson.”  The  Byrons  were  a short-lived 
race.  The  poet  himself  had  just  turned 
thirty-six  ; his  mother  was  only  forty-six 
when  she  passed  away.  This  name  of  Cur- 
tis Jackson  in  the  register  was  that  of  the 
rector  or  curate  then  incumbent  but  now 
departed.  The  register  is  a long  narrow 
book  made  of  parchment,  and  full  of  various 
crabbed  handwritings — a record  similar  to 
those  which  are  so  carefully  treasured  at 
the  Church  of  the  Holy  Trinity  at  Stratford  ; 
but  it  is  more  dilapidated. 

Another  relic  shown  by  John  Brown  was 
a bit  of  embroidery,  presenting  the  arms  of 
the  Byron  family.  It  had  been  used  at 
Byron’s  funeral,  and  thereafter  was  long 
kept  in  the  church,  though  latterly  with 
but  little  care.  When  the  Rev.  Curtis 
Jackson  came  there  he  beheld  this  frail 
memorial  with  pious  disapprobation.  “ He 
told  me,”  said  the  sexton,  “ to  take  it  home 


BYRON  AND  HUCKNALL-TORKARD. 


121 


and  burn  it.  I did  take  it  home,  but  I 
didn’t  burn  it ; and  when  the  new  rector 
came  he  heard  of  it,  and  asked  me  to  bring 
it  back,  and  a lady  gave  the  frame  to  put  it 
in.”  Framed  it  is,  and  likely  now  to  be 
always  preserved  in  this  interesting  church ; 
and  earnestly  do  I wish  that  I could  remem- 
ber, in  order  that  I might  speak  it  with 
honour,  the  name  of  the  clergyman  who 
could  thus  rebuke  bigotry,  and  welcome  and 
treasure  in  his  church  that  shred  of  silk 
which  once  rested  on  the  coffin  of  Byron. 
Still  another  relic  preserved  by  John  Brown 
is  a large  piece  of  cardboard  giving  the  in- 
scription which  is  upon  the  coffin  of  the 
poet’s  mother,  and  which  bore  some  part  in 
the  obsequies  of  that  singular  woman — a 
creature  full  of  faults,  but  the  parent  of  a 
mighty  genius,  and  capable  of  inspiring 
deep  love.  On  the  night  after  Byron  ar- 
rived at  Kewstead,  whither  he  repaired 
from  London  on  receiving  news  of  her 
illness,  only  to  find  her  dead,  he  was 
found  sitting  in  the  dark  and  sobbing  be- 
side the  corpse.  “ I had  but  one  friend 
in  the  world,”  he  said,  “and  she  is  gone.” 
He  was  soon  to  publish  “ Childe  Harold,” 
and  to  gain  hosts  of  friends  and  have  the 
world  at  his  feet ; but  he  spoke  what  he 


122 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


felt,  and  he  spoke  the  truth,  in  that  dark 
room  on  that  desolate  night.  Thoughts  of 
these  things,  and  of  many  other  strange  pas- 
sages and  incidents  in  his  brief,  checkered, 
glorious,  lamentable  life,  thronged  into  my 
mind  as  I stood  there  in  presence  of  those 
relics  and  so  near  his  dust,  while  the  church 
grew  dark  and  the  silence  seemed  to  deepen 
in  the  dusk  of  the  gathering  night. 

They  have  for  many  years  kept  a book  at 
the  Church  of  Hucknall-Torkard  (the  first 
one,  an  album  given  by  Sir  John  Bowring, 
and  containing  the  record  of  visitations  from 
1825  to  1834,  was  stolen  in  the  latter  year) 
in  which  the  visitors  write  their  names ; 
but  the  catalogue  of  pilgrims  during  the 
last  fifty  years  is  not  a long  one.  The 
votaries  of  Byron  are  far  less  numerous 
than  those  of  Shakespeare.  Custom  has 
made  the  visit  to  Stratford  “a  property  of 
easiness,”  and  Shakespeare  is  a safe  no  less 
than  a rightful  object  of  worship.  The  visit 
to  Hucknall-Torkard  is  neither  so  easy  nor 
so  agreeable,  and  it  requires  some  courage 
to  be  a worshipper  of  Byron — and  to  own 
it.  No  day  passes  without  bringing  its 
visitor  to  the  Shakespeare  cottage  and  the 
Shakespeare  tomb  ; many  days  pass  without 
bringing  a stranger  to  the  Church  of  St. 


BYRON  AND  HUCKNALL-TORKARD.  1 23 

James.  On  the  capital  of  a column  near 
Byron’s  tomb  I saw  two  mouldering  wreaths 
of  laurel,  which  had  hung  there  for  years  ; 
one  brought  by  the  Bishop  of  Norwich,  the 
other  by  the  American  poet  Joaquin  Miller. 
It  was  good  to  see  them,  and  especially  to 
see  them  close  by  the  tablet  of  white  marble 
which  was  placed  on  that  church  wall  to 
commemorate  the  poet,  and  to  be  her  wit- 
ness in  death,  by  his  loving  and  beloved 
sister  Augusta  Mary  Leigh — a name  that  is 
the  synonym  of  noble  fidelity,  a name  that 
in  our  day  cruel  detraction  and  hideous 
calumny  have  done  their  worst  to  tarnish. 
That  tablet  names  him  “ The  Author  of 
Childe  Harold’s  Pilgrimage  ” ; and  if  the 
conviction  of  thoughtful  men  and  women 
throughout  the  world  can  be  accepted  as  an 
authority,  no  name  in  the  long  annals  of 
English  literature  is  more  certain  of  immor- 
tality than  the  name  of  Byron.  People 
mention  the  poetry  of  Spenser  and  Cowley 
and  Dryden  and  Cowper,  but  the  poetry  of 
Byron  they  read.  His  reputation  can  afford 
the  absence  of  all  memorial  to  him  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  and  it  cau^endure  the  neglect 
and  censure  of  the  precinct  of  Nottingham. 
That  city  rejoices  in  a stately  castle  throned 
uoon  a rock,  and  persons  who  admire  the 


124  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

Stuarts  may  exult  in  the  recollection  that 
there  the  standard  of  Charles  I.  was  unfurled 
in  his  fatal  war  with  the  Parliament  of 
England ; but  all  that  really  hallows  it  for 
the  stranger  of  to-day  and  for  posterity 
is  its  association  with  the  name  of  Byron. 
You  will  look  in  vain,  however,  for  any 
adequate  sign  of  his  former  association  with 
that  place.  It  is  difficult  even  to  find  prints 
or  photographs  of  the  Byron  localities  in 
the  shops  of  Nottingham.  One  dealer,  from 
whom  I bought  all  the  Byron  pictures  that 
he  possessed,  was  kind  enough  to  explain 
the  situation  in  one  expressive  sentence : 
“Much  more  ought  to  be  done  here  as  to 
Lord  Byron’s  memory,  that  is  the  truth ; 
but  the  fact  is  the  first  families  of  the  county 
don’t  approve  of  him.” 

When  w~e  came  again  into  the  church- 
yard, with  its  many  scattered  graves  and 
its  quaint  stones  and  crosses  leaning  every 
way  and  huddled  in  a strange  kind  of  orderly 
confusion,  the  great  dark  tower  stood  out 
bold  and  solitary  in  the  gloaming,  and  a chill 
wind  of  evening  had  begun  to  moan  around 
its  pinnacles,  and  through  its  mysterious 
belfry  windows,  and  in  the  few  trees  near 
by,  which  gave  forth  a mournful  whisper. 
It  was  hard  to  leave  the  place,  and  for  a 


BYRON  AND  HUCKNALL-TORKARD.  1 25 

long  time  I stood  near  the  chapel,  just  above 
the  outer  wall  of  the  Byron  vault.  And 
here  the  sexton  told  me  the  story  of  the 
White  Lady — pointing,  as  he  spoke,  to  a 
cottage  abutting  on  the  churchyard,  one 
window  in  which  commands  an  easy  view  of 
the  place  of  Byron’s  grave.  “ There  she 
lived,”  he  said,  “and  there  she  died,  and 
there  ” (pointing  to  an  unmarked  grave  near 
the  pathway,  about  thirty  feet  from  the 
Byron  vault)  “I  buried  her.”  It  is  impos- 
sible to  give  his  words,  or  to  indicate  his 
earnest  manner.  In  brief,  this  lady,  whose 
story  no  one  knew,  had  taken  up  her  resi- 
dence in  this  cottage  long  subsequent  to  the 
burial  of  Byron,  and  had  remained  there 
until  she  died.  She  was  pale,  thin,  hand- 
some, and  she  wore  white  garments.  Her 
face  was  often  to  be  seen  at  that  window, 
whether  by  night  or  day,  and  she  seemed  to 
be  watching  the  tomb.  Once,  when  masons 
were  repairing  the  church  wall,  she  was  en- 
abled to  descend  into  that  vault,  and  there- 
from she  obtained  a skull,  which  she  declared 
to  be  Byron’s,  and  which  she  scraped,  pol- 
ished, and  made  perfectly  white,  and  kept 
always  beneath  her  pillow.  It  was  her  re- 
quest, often  made  to  the  sexton,  that  she 
might  be  buried  in  the  churchyard  close  to 


126 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


the  wall  of  the  poet’s  tomb.  “When  at 
last  she  died,”  said  John  Brown,  “they 
brought  that  skull  to  me,  and  I buried  it 
there  in  the  ground.  It  was  one  of  the  loose 
skulls  from  the  old  vault.  She  thought  it 
was  Byron’s,  and  it  pleased  her  to  think  so. 
I might  have  laid  her  close  to  this  wall.  I 
don’t  know  why  I didn’t.” 

In  those  words  the  sexton’s  story  ended. 
It  was  only  one  more  of  the  myriad  hints  of 
that  romance  which  the  life  and  poetry  of 
Byron  have  so  widely  created  and  diffused. 
I glanced  around  for  some  relic  of  the  place 
that  might  properly  be  taken  away : there 
was  neither  an  ivy  leaf  blooming  upon  the 
wall  nor  a flower  growing  in  all  that  ground ; 
but  into  a crevice  of  the  rock,  just  above 
his  tomb,  the  wind  had  at  some  time  blown 
a little  earth,  and  in  this  a few  blades  of 
grass  were  thinly  rooted.  These  I gathered, 
and  still  possess,  as  a memento  of  an  even- 
ing at  Byron’s  grave. 


Note  on  the  Missing  Register  of 
Hucknall-Torkard  Church. 

The  Album  that  was  given  to  Hucknall- 
Torkard  Church,  in  1825,  by  Sir  John  Bow- 
ring, to  be  used  as  a register  of  the  names 


BYRON  AND  HUCKNALL-TORKARD.  1 27 

of  visitors  to  Byron’s  tomb,  disappeared 
from  that  church  some  time  after  the  year 
1834,  and  it  has  not  since  been  found.  It  is 
supposed  to  have  been  stolen.  In  1834  its 
contents  were  printed, — from  a manuscript 
copy  of  it,  which  had  been  obtained  from 
the  sexton, — in  a book  of  selections  from 
Byron’s  prose,  edited  by  “ J.  M.  L.”  These 
initials  stand  for  the  name  of  Joseph  Munt 
Langford,  who  died  in  1884.  The  dedica- 
tion of  the  register  is  in  the  following  words  : 
“To  the  immortal  and  illustrious  fame  of 
Lord  Byron,  the  first  poet  of  the  age  in 
which  he  lived,  these  tributes,  weak  and 
unworthy  of  him,  but  in  themselves  sincere, 
are  inscribed  with  the  deepest  reverence. — 
July  1825.”  At  that  time  no  memorial  of 
any  kind  had  been  placed  in  the  church  to 
mark  the  poet’s  sepulchre  ; a fact  which 
prompted  Sir  John  Bowring  to  begin  his 
Album  with  twenty-eight  lines  of  verse,  of 
which  these  are  the  best : — 

“A  still,  resistless  influence, 

Unseen  but  felt,  binds  up  the  sense  . . . 
And  though  the  master  hand  is  cold, 

And  though  the  lyre  it  once  controlled 
Rests  mute  in  death,  yet  from  the  gloom 
Which  dwells  about  this  holy  tomb 
Silence  breathes  out  more  eloquent 
Than  epitaph  or  monument.” 


128 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


This  register  was  used  from  1825  till  1834. 
It  contains  815  names,  with  which  are  inter- 
twined 28  inscriptions  in  verse  and  36  in 
prose.  The  first  name  is  that  of  Count  Pietro 
Gamba,  who  visited  his  friend’s  grave  on 
January  31,  1825  : but  this  must  have  been 
a reminiscent  memorandum,  as  the  book  was 
not  opened  till  the  following  July.  The  next 
entry  was  made  by  Byron’s  old  servant,  the 
date  being  September  23,  1825:  “ William 
Fletcher  visited  his  ever- to-be-lamented  Lord 
and  Master’s  tomb.”  On  September  21, 
1828,  the  following  singular  record  was 
written:  “Joseph  Carr,  engraver,  Hound’s 
Gate,  Nottingham,  visited  this  place  for  the 
first  time  to  witness  the  funeral  of  Lady 
Byron  [mother  of  the  much  lamented  late 
Lord  Byron],  August  9th,  1811,  whose  coffin- 
plate  I engraved,  and  now  I once  more  re- 
visit the  spot  to  drop  a tear  as  a tribute  of 
unfeigned  respect  to  the  mortal  remains  of 
that  noble  British  bard.  ‘Tho’  lost  to 
sight,  to  memory  dear.  ’ ” The  next  notable 
entry  is  that  of  September  3,  1829  : “ Lord 
Byron’s  sister,  the  Honourable  Augusta 
Mary  Leigh,  visited  this  church.”  Under 
the  date  of  January  8,  1832,  are  found  the 
names  of  “ M.  Van  Buren,  Minister  Pleni- 
potentiary from  the  United  States ; Wash- 


BYRON  AND  HUCKNALL-TORKARD.  1 29 

ington  Irving  ; John  Van  Buren,  New  York, 
U.S.A.,  and  J.  Wildman.”  The  latter,  no 
doubt,  was  Colonel  Wildman,  the  proprietor 
of  Newstead  Abbey,  Byron’s  old  home,  now 
owned  by  Colonel  Webb.  On  August  5, 
1832,  “ Mr.  Bunn  (manager  of  Drury  Lane 
Theatre,  honoured  by  the  acquaintance  of 
the  illustrious  poet)  visited  Lord  Bryon’s 
tomb,  with  a party.”  Edward  F.  Flower 
and  Selina  Flower,  of  Stratford-upon-Avon, 
record  their  presence,  on  September  15,  1832 
— the  parents  of  Charles  Edward  Flower 
and  Edgar  Flower,  now  leading  citizens  of 
Stratford,  the  former  being  the  founder  of  the 
Shakespeare  Memorial.  There  are  several 
eccentric  tributes  in  the  register,  but  the 
most  of  them  are  feeble.  One  of  the  better 
kind  is  this  : — 


“ Not  in  that  palace  where  the  dead  repose 
In  splendid  holiness,  where  Time  has  spread 
His  sombre  shadows,  and  a halo  glows 
Around  the  ashes  of  the  mighty  dead, 

Life’s  weary  pilgrim  rests  his  aching  head. 
This  is  his  resting-place,  and  save  his  own 
No  light,  no  glory  round  his  grave  is  shed: 
But  memory  journeys  to  his  shrine  alone 
To  mark  how  sound  he  sleeps,  beneath  yon 
simple  stone. 


I 


130 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


Ah,  say,  art  thou  ambitious?  thy  young 
breast — 

Oh  does  it  pant  for  honours  ? dost  thou  chase 
The  phantom  Fame,  in  fairy  colours  drest, 
Expecting  all  the  while  to  win  the  race  ? 

Oh,  does  the  flush  of  youth  adorn  thy  face 
And  dost  thou  deem  it  lasting?  dost  thou 
crave 

The  hero's  wreath,  the  poet’s  meed  of  praise? 
Learn  that  of  this,  these,  all,  not  one  can  save 
From  the  chill  hand  of  death.  Behold  Child© 
Harold’s  grave  I ” 


IX. 


HISTORIC  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS. 

STRATFORD-UPON-AVON,  August  20, 
1889. — The  traveller  who  hurries 
through  Warwickshire — and  American  tra- 
vellers mostly  do  hurry  through  it — appre- 
ciates but  little  the  things  that  he  sees,  and 
does  not  understand  how  much  he  loses.  The 
customary  course  is  to  lodge  at  the  Red 
Horse  Hotel — which  is  one  of  the  most 
comfortable  places  in  England — and  thus  to 
enjoy  the  associations  that  are  connected 
with  the  visits  of  Washington  Irving.  His 
parlour,  his  bedroom  (number  15),  his  arm- 
chair, his  poker,  and  the  Sexton’s  Clock, 
mentioned  by  him  in  the  “Sketch  Book,” 
are  all  to  be  seen — if  your  lightning-express 
conductor  will  give  you  time  enough  to  see 
them.  From  the  Red  Horse  you  are  taken 
in  a carriage  when  you  ought  to  be  allowed 
to  proceed  on  foot,  and  the  usual  round 
includes  the  Shakespeare  Birthplace ; the 
Grammar  School  and  Guild  Chapel ; the 

131 


I32 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


remains  of  New  Place  ; Trinity  Church  and 
the  Shakespeare  graves  in  its  chancel ; 
Anne  Hathaway’s  cottage  at  Shottery ; 
and,  perhaps,  the  Shakespeare  Memorial 
Library  and  Theatre.  These  are  impressive 
sights  to  the  lover  of  Shakespeare ; but 
when  you  have  seen  all  these  you  have  only 
begun  to  see  the  riches  of  Stratford-upon- 
Avon.  It  is  only  by  living  in  the  town,  by 
making  yourself  familiar  with  it  in  all  its 
moods,  by  viewing  it  in  storm  as  well  as  in 
sunshine,  by  roaming  through  its  quaint, 
deserted  streets  in  the  lonely  hours  of  the 
night,  by  sailing  up  and  down  its  beautiful 
Avon,  by  driving  and  walking  in  the  green 
lanes  that  twine  about  it  for  many  miles  in 
every  direction,  by  becoming  in  fact  a part 
of  its  actual  being,  that  you  obtain  a 
genuine  knowledge  of  this  delightful  place. 
Familiarity,  in  this  case,  does  not  breed 
contempt.  The  worst  you  will  ever  learn 
of  Stratford  is  that  gossip  thrives  in  it ; 
that  its  intellect  is,  with  due  exception, 
narrow  and  sleepy;  and  that  it  is  heavily 
ridden  by  the  ecclesiastical  establishment. 
You  will  never  find  anything  that  can 
detract  from  the  impression  of  beauty  and 
repose  made  upon  your  mind  by  the  sweet 
retirement  of  its  situation,  by  the  majesty 


HISTORIC  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS.  1 33 


of  its  venerable  monuments,  and  by  the 
opulent,  diversified  splendours  of  its  natural 
and  historical  environment.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  more  you  know  of  those  charms 
the  more  you  will  love  the  town,  and  the 
greater  will  be  the  benefit  of  high  thought 
and  spiritual  exaltation  that  you  will  derive 
from  your  knowledge  of  it ; and  hence  it 
is  important  that  the  American  traveller 
should  be  counselled  for  his  own  sake  to 
live  a little  while  in  Stratford  instead  of 
treating  it  as  an  incident  of  his  journey. 

The  occasion  of  a garden  party  at  the 
rectory  of  a clerical  friend  at  Butler’s  Mars- 
ton  gave  opportunity  to  see  one  of  the 
many  picturesque  and  happy  homes  with 
which  this  region  abounds.  The  lawns  there 
are  ample  and  sumptuous.  The  dwelling 
and  the  church,  which  are  close  to  each 
other,  are  bowered  in  great  trees.  From 
the  terraces  a lovely  view  may  be  obtained 
of  the  richly  coloured  and  finely  cultivated 
fields,  stretching  away  toward  Edgehill, 
which  lies  eastward  from  Stratford-upon- 
Avon  about  sixteen  miles,  and  marks  the 
beginning  of  the  Vale  of  the  Red  Horse. 
In  the  churchyard  are  the  gray,  lichen- 
covered  remains  of  one  of  those  ancient 
crosses  from  the  steps  of  which  the  monks 


1 34  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

preached  in  the  early  days  of  the  Church. 
Relics  of  this  class  are  deeply  interesting 
for  what  they  suggest  of  the  people  and  the 
life  of  earlier  times.  A perfect  specimen 
of  the  ancient  cross  may  be  seen  at  Henley  - 
in- Arden,  a few  miles  north-west  of  Strat- 
ford, where  it  stands  in  mouldering  majesty 
at  the  junction  of  two  roads  in  the  centre  of 
the  village — strangely  inharmonious  with 
the  petty  shops  and  numerous  inns  of  which 
this  long  and  straggling  but  characteristic 
and  attractive  settlement  is  composed.  The 
tower  of  the  church  at  Butler’s  Marston,  a 
gray,  grim  structure,  “four-square  to  oppo- 
sition,” was  built  in  the  eleventh  century — 
a period  of  much  ecclesiastical  activity  in 
these  islands.  Within  it  I found  a noble 
pulpit  of  carved  oak,  dark  with  age,  of 
the  time  of  James  I.  There  are  many 
commemorative  stones  in  the  church,  on 
one  of  which  appears  this  lovely  couplet, 
addressed  to  the  shade  of  a young  girl : — 

“ Sleep,  gentle  soul,  and  wait  thy  Maker’s  will  ! 

Then  rise  unchanged,  and  be  an  angel  still.” 

The  present  village  of  Butler’s  Marston — 
a little  group  of  cottages  clustered  upon  the 
margin  of  a tiny  stream  and  almost  hidden 


HISTORIC  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS.  1 35 

in  a wooded  dell — is  comparatively  new ; 
for  it  has  arisen  since  the  time  of  the  Puri- 
tan Civil  War.  The  old  village  was  swept 
away  by  the  Roundheads  when  Essex  and 
Hampden  came  down  to  fight  King  Charles 
at  Edgehill  in  1642.  That  fierce  strife 
waged  all  along  the  country-side,  and  you 
may  still  perceive  here,  in  the  inequalities 
of  the  land,  the  sites  on  which  houses  for- 
merly stood.  It  is  a sweet  and  peaceful 
place  now,  smiling  with  flowers  and  musical 
with  the  rustle  of  the  leaves  of  giant  elms. 
The  clergyman  here  farms  his  own  glebe, 
and  he  has  expended  more  than  a thousand 
pounds  in  the  renovation  of  his  manse. 
The  church  “ living  ” is  not  worth  much 
more  than  a hundred  pounds  a year,  and 
when  he  leaves  the  dwelling,  if  he  should 
ever  leave  it,  he  loses  the  value  of  all 
the  improvements  that  he  has  made.  This 
he  mentioned  with  a contented  smile.  The 
place,  in  fact,  is  a little  paradise,  and  as 
I looked  across  the  green  and  golden  fields, 
and  saw  the  herds  at  rest  and  the  wheat 
waving  in  sun  and  shadow,  and  thought 
of  the  simple  life  of  the  handful  of  people 
congregated  here,  the  words  of  Gray  came 
murmuring  into  my  mind  : — 


136  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

“ Far  from  the  madding  crowd’s  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray  ; 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way.” 

“Unregarded  age,  in  corners  thrown.” 
Was  that  fine  line  suggested  to  Shake- 
speare by  the  spectacle  of  the  old  almshouse 
of  the  Holy  Guild,  which  stood  in  his  time, 
just  as  it  stands  now,  close  to  the  spot 
where  he  lived  and  died?  New  Place, 
Shakespeare’s  home,  stood  on  the  north-east 
corner  of  Chapel  Street  (a  continuation  of 
High  Street)  and  Chapel  Lane.  The  Guild 
Chapel  stands  on  the  south-east  corner  of 
those  streets,  immediately  opposite  to  what 
was  once  the  poet’s  home.  Southward  from 
the  chapel,  and  adjacent  to  it,  extends  the 
long,  low,  sombre  building  that  contains 
the  Free  Grammar  School  and  the  alms- 
house, founded  by  Thomas  Jolyffe  in  1482, 
and  refounded  in  1553  by  King  Edward  vi. 
In  that  grammar  school  there  is  reason  to 
believe  that  Shakespeare  was  educated ; at 
first  by  Walter  Roche,  afterward  by  Simon 
Hunt  — who  doubtless  birched  the  little 
boys  then,  even  as  the  headmaster  does 
now  ; it  being  a cardinal  principle  with  the 
British  educator  that  learning,  like  other 
goods,  should  be  delivered  in  the  rear.  In 


HISTORIC  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS.  1 37 

that  almshouse  doubtless  there  were  many 
forlorn  inmates,  even  as  there  are  at  present 
— and  Shakespeare  must  often  have  seen 
them.  On  visiting  one  of  the  bedesmen  I 
found  him  moving  slowly,  with  that  mild, 
aimless,  inert  manner  and  that  bleak  aspect 
peculiar  to  such  remnants  of  vanished  life, 
among  the  vegetable  vines  and  the  profuse 
and  rambling  flowers  in  the  sunny  garden 
behind  the  house ; and  presently  I went 
into  his  humble  room  and  sat  by  his  fire- 
side. The  scene  was  the  perfect  fulfilment 
of  Shakespeare’s  line.  A stone  floor.  A 
low  ceiling  crossed  with  dusky  beams. 
Walls  that  had  been  whitewashed  long  ago. 
A small  iron  kettle,  with  water  in  it, 
simmering  over  a few  smouldering  coals. 
A rough  bed,  in  a corner.  A little  table, 
on  which  were  three  conch -shells  ranged  in 
a row.  An  old  arm-chair,  on  which  were 
a few  coarse  wads  of  horsehair  as  a cushion. 
A bench,  whereon  lay  a torn,  tattered,  soiled 
copy  of  the  Prayer  Book  of  the  Church  of 
England,  beginning  at  the  Epiphany.  This 
sumptuous  place  was  lighted  by  a lattice 
of  small  leaded  panes.  And  upon  one  of 
the  walls  hung  a framed  placard  of  wor- 
sted work,  bearing  the  inscription  “ Blessed 
be  the  Lord  for  His  Unspeakable  Gift.” 


138  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

The  aged  and  infirm  pensioner  doddered 
about  the  room,  and  when  he  was  asked 
what  had  become  of  his  wife  his  dull  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  he  said  simply  that 
she  was  dead.  “ So  runs  the  world  away.” 
The  summons  surely  cannot  be  unwelcome 
that  calls  such  an  old  and  lonely  pilgrim  as 
that  to  his  rest  in  yonder  churchyard  and 
to  his  lost  wife  who  is  waiting  for  him. 

Warwickshire  is  hallowed  by  shining 
names  of  persons  illustrious  in  the  annals 
of  art.  Drayton,  Greene,  and  Heminge, 
who  belong  to  the  Shakespeare  period,  were 
born  there.  Walter  Savage  Landor  was  a 
native  of  Warwick — in  which  quaint  and 
charming  town  you  may  see  the  house  of  his 
birth,  duly  marked,  close  by  the  gate  of 
Warwick  Castle.  Croft,  the  composer,  was 
born  near  Ettington,  hard  by  Stratford : 
there  is  a tiny  monument  commemorative 
of  him  in  the  ruins  of  Ettington  Church, 
near  the  manor-house.  And  in  our  own 
day  Warwickshire  has  enriched  the  world 
with  George  Eliot  and  Ellen  Terry.  But  it 
is  a chief  characteristic  of  England  that, 
whichever  way  you  turn  in  it,  your  foot- 
steps fall  on  haunted  ground.  Everyday 
life  here  is  continually  impressed  by  inci- 
dents of  historic  association.  In  an  old 


HISTORIC  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS.  1 39 

church  at  Greenwich  I asked  that  I might 
be  directed  to  the  tomb  of  General  Wolfe. 
“ He  is  buried  just  beneath  where  you  are 
now  standing,”  the  custodian  said.  It  was 
an  elderly  woman  who  showed  the  place, 
and  she  presently  stated  that  when  a girl 
she  once  entered  the  vaults  beneath  this 
church  and  stood  beside  the  coffin  of  General 
Wolfe  and  took  a piece  of  laurel  from  it, 
and  also  took  a piece  of  the  red  velvet  pall 
from  the  coffin  of  the  old  Duchess  of  Bolton, 
close  by.  That  Duchess  was  Lavinia  Fenton, 
the  first  representative  of  Polly , in  “ The 
Beggars’  Opera,”  who  died  in  1760,  aged 
fifty-two.1  “ Lord  Clive,”  the  dame  added, 
“is  buried  in  the  same  vaults.”  An  im- 
pressive thought,  that  the  ashes  of  the  man 
who  established  Britain’s  power  in  America 
should  at  last  mingle  with  the  ashes  of  the 
man  who  gave  India  to  England. 

1 Dr.  Joseph  Wharton,  in  a letter  to  the  poet  Gay, 
described  her  as  follows : “ She  was  a very  accom- 
plished and  most  agreeable  companion;  had  much 
wit,  good  strong  sense,  and  a just  taste  in  polite 
literature.  Her  person  was  agreeable  and  well  made ; 
though  I think  she  could  never  be  called  a beauty.  I 
have  had  the  pleasure  of  being  at  table  with  her  when 
her  conversation  was  much  admired  by  the  first  char- 
acters of  the  age,  particularly  old  Lord  Bathurst  and 
Lord  Granville.” 


X. 


SHAKESPEARE’S  TOWN. 

TO  traverse  Stratford-upon-Avon  is  to  re- 
turn upon  old  tracks,  but  no  matter 
how  often  you  visit  this  delightful  place 
you  will  always  see  new  sights  in  it,  and 
find  new  incidents.  After  repeated  visits 
to  Shakespeare’s  town  the  traveller  begins 
to  take  more  notice  than  perhaps  at  first  he 
did  of  its  everyday  life.  In  former  days 
the  observer  had  no  eyes  except  for  the 
Shakespearean  shrines.  The  addition  of  a 
new  wing  to  the  ancient  Red  Horse  Inn, 
the  new  gardens  around  the  Memorial 
Theatre,  the  new  chimes  of  Trinity — these, 
and  matters  like  to  these,  attract  atten- 
tion now.  And  now,  too,  I have  rambled, 
in  the  gloaming,  through  scented  fields 
to  Clifford  Church ; and  strolled  through 
many  a green  lane  to  beautiful  Preston  ; 
and  climbed  Borden  Hill ; and  stood  by  the 
maypole  on  Welford  Common;  and  jour- 
neyed along  the  battle-haunted  crest  of 

140 


SHAKESPEARE’S  TOWN.  I4I 

Edgehill ; and  rested  at  venerable  Compton - 
Winyate  ; and  climbed  the  hills  of  Wel- 
combe  to  peer  into  the  darkening  valleys  of 
the  Avon  and  hear  the  cuckoo-note  echoed 
and  re-echoed  from  rhododendron  groves, 
and  from  the  great,  mysterious  elms  that 
embower  this  country-side  for  miles  and 
miles  around.  This  is  the  life  of  Stratford 
to-day — the  fertile  farms,  the  garnished 
meadows,  the  avenues  of  white  and  coral 
hawthorn,  masses  of  milky  snow  - ball, 
honeysuckle,  and  syringa  loading  the  soft 
air  with  fragrance,  chestnuts  dropping 
blooms  of  pink  and  white,  and  laburnums 
swinging  their  golden  censers  in  the  breeze. 

The  building  that  forms  the  north-west 
corner  of  High  Street  and  Bridge  Street  in 
Stratford  was  occupied  in  Shakespeare’s 
time  by  Bichard  Quiney,  the  wine-dealer, 
who  married  the  poet’s  youngest  daughter, 
Judith,  and  an  inscription  appears  upon  it, 
stating  that  Judith  lived  m it  for  thirty-six 
years.  Richard  Savage  ;hat  competent, 
patient,  diligent  student  of  the  church 
registers  and  other  documentary  treasures 
of  Warwickshire,  furnished  the  proof  of  this 
fact  from  investigation  of  the  town  records 
— which  is  but  one  of  many  services  that  he 
has  rendered  to  the  old  home  of  Shakespeare. 


142 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


The  Quiney  premises  are  now  occupied  by 
Edward  Fox,  a journalist,  a printer,  and  a 
dealer  in  souvenirs  of  Shakespeare  and  of 
Stratford.  This  house,  in  old  times,  was  offi- 
cially styled  “The  Cage,”  because  it  had 
been  used  as  a prison.  Standing  in  the  cellar 
of  it  you  perceive  that  its  walls  are  five  feet 
thick.  There  likewise  are  seen  traces  of 
the  grooves  down  which  the  wine-casks 
were  rolled  in  the  days  of  Shakespeare’s 
son-in-law,  Richard  Quiney.  The  shop  now 
owned  by  Edward  Fox  has  been  established 
in  Stratford  more  than  a hundred  years,  and 
as  this  tenant  has  a long  lease  of  the  build- 
ing, and  is  of  an  energetic  spirit  in  his  busi- 
ness, it  bids  fair  to  last  as  much  longer. 
One  indication  of  his  sagacity  was  revealed 
in  the  cellar,  where  was  heaped  a quantity 
of  old  oak,  taken  (in  1887)  from  the  belfry 
of  Trinity  Church,  in  which  Shakespeare  is 
buried.  This  oak,  which  was  there  when 
Shakespeare  lived,  and  which  had  to  be  re- 
moved because  a stronger  structure  was 
required  for  sustaining  an  augmented  chime 
of  heavy  bells,  will  be  converted  into  various 
carved  relics,  such  as  must  find  favour  with 
Shakespeare  worshippers — of  whom  more 
than  16,000  visited  Stratford  in  1887,  at 
least  one-fourth  of  that  number  (4482) 


SHAKESPEARE’S  TOWN. 


143 


being  Americans.  A cross  made  of  the 
belfry  wood  is  a pleasing  souvenir  of  the 
hallowed  Shakespeare  Church.  When  the 
poet  saw  that  church,  the  tower  was  sur- 
mounted, not  as  now  with  a tall  and  grace- 
ful spire,  but  with  a spire  of  timber  covered 
with  lead.  The  oak  frame  to  support  the 
bells,  however,  has  been  in  the  tower  more 
than  three  hundred  years. 

The  two  sculptured  groups,  emblematic  of 
Comedy  and  Tragedy,  which  have  been 
placed  upon  the  front  of  the  Shakespeare 
Memorial  Theatre,  are  the  gain  of  a benefit 
performance  which  was  given  in  that  build- 
ing on  August  29,  1885,  by  Miss  Mary 
Anderson,  who  then,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  impersonated  Shakespeare’s  Rosa - 
lind.  This  actress,  since  her  first  visit  to 
Stratford— a private  visit  made  in  1883 — 
has  shown  a deep  interest  in  the  town, 
and  in  consequence  of  her  services  to  the 
Shakespeare  Memorial  she  is  now  one  of  its 
life-governors.  Those  services  completed 
the  exterior  decorations  of  the  building. 
The  emblem  of  History  had  already  been 
put  in  its  place — the  scene  in  “ King  John,” 
in  which  Prince  Arthur  melts  the  hard 
and  cruel  purpose  of  Hubert  to  bum  out 
his  eyes.  Tragedy  is  represented  by  Hamlet 


144  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

and  the  Gravedigger  in  their  colloquy  over 
Yorick’s  skull.  In  the  emblem  of  Comedy, 
the  figure  of  Rosalind  is  that  of  Miss  Ander- 
son, in  a boy’s  dress  — a figure  that  may 
perhaps  be  deemed  inadequate  to  the  origi- 
nal, but  one  which  certainly  is  expressive  of 
the  ingenuous  demeanour  and  artless  grace  of 
that  gentle  lady.  The  grounds  south  of  the 
Memorial  are  diversified  and  adorned  with 
lawns,  trees,  flowers,  and  commodious  path- 
ways, and  this  lovely,  park-like  enclosure — 
thus  beautified  through  the  liberality  of 
Charles  Edward  Flower,  the  original  pro- 
moter of  the  Memorial — is  now  free  to  the 
people,  “to  walk  abroad  and  recreate  them- 
selves ” beside  the  Avon.  The  Picture 
Gallery  of  the  Memorial  lacks  many  things 
which  are  needed,  and  it  contains  several 
things  which  it  might  better  lack.  The 
Library  continues  to  grow,  but  the  American 
department  of  it  needs  accessions.  Every 
American  edition  of  Shakespeare  ought  to 
be  there,  and  every  book,  of  American 
origin,  on  a Shakespearean  subject.  It  was 
at  one  time  purposed  to  set  up  a special 
case,  surmounted  with  the  American  em- 
blem, for  the  reception  of  contributions  from 
Americans.  The  Library  contains  (March 
1890)  5790  volumes,  in  various  languages. 


SHAKESPEARE’S  TOWN.  145 

Of  English  editions  of  the  complete  works 
of  Shakespeare  it  contains  two  hundred 
and  nine.  A Russian  translation  of  Shake- 
speare, in  nine  volumes,  appears  in  the 
collection,  together  with  three  complete 
editions  in  Dutch.  An  elaborate  and  beau- 
tiful catalogue  of  these  treasures,  made 
by  Mr.  Frederic  Hawley,  records  them 
in  an  imperishable  form.  Mr.  Hawley, 
long  the  Librarian  of  the  Memorial,  died  at 
Stratford  on  March  13,  1889,  aged  sixty- 
two,  and  was  buried  at  Kensal  Green,  in 
London  ; his  wish  being  to  rest  in  that 
place.  Mr.  Hawley  had  been  an  actor, 
under  the  name  of  Haywell,  and  he  was 
the  author  of  more  than  one  tragedy  in 
blank  verse.  Mr.  A.  H.  Wall,  who  has 
succeeded  him  as  Librarian,  is  a learned 
man,  an  antiquary,  and  an  excellent  writer. 
To  him  the  readers  of  the  Stratford-on- 
Avon  Herald  are  indebted  for  many  in- 
structive articles — notably  for  those  giving 
an  account  of  the  original  Shakespeare 
quartos  acquired  for  the  Memorial  Library 
at  the  sale  of  the  effects  of  J.  0.  Halliwell- 
Phillips.  These  quartos  are  “The  Merchant 
of  Venice,”  “The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,” 
and  a first  edition  of  “Pericles.”  A copy 
of  “ Roger  of  Faversham  ” was  also  bought, 

K 


146 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


and  a copy  of  two  of  the  plays  of  Aplira 
Belin.  Charles  Edward  Flower  purchased 
at  that  sale  a copy  of  the  First  Folio  of 
Shakespeare,  and  all  four  of  the  Shake- 
speare Folios  now  stand  side  by  side  in  his 
private  library  at  Avonbank.  It  never 
before  was  my  good  fortune  to  see  those 
precious  volumes  (1623  - 1632  - 1663  - 1685) 
together  in  one  collection.  Mr.  Flower 
intimated  the  intention  of  giving  them  to 
the  Shakespeare  Memorial  Library. 

A large  collection  of  old  writings  was 
found  in  a room  of  the  Grammar  School, 
adjacent  to  the  Guild  Chapel,  in  1887. 
About  five  thousand  separate  papers  were 
discovered,  the  old  commingled  with  the 
new ; many  of  them  indentures  of  appren- 
ticeship ; many  of  them  receipts  for  money  ; 
no  one  of  them  especially  important  as  bear- 
ing on  the  Shakespeare  story.  Several  of 
them  are  in  Latin.  The  earliest  date  is 
1560 — four  years  before  the  poet  was  born. 
One  document  is  a memorandum  “present- 
ing ” a couple  of  the  wives  of  Stratford  for 
slander  of  certain  other  women,  and  quoting 
their  bad  language  with  startling  fidelity. 
Another  is  a letter  from  a citizen  of  London, 
named  Smart,  establishing  and  endowing  a 
free  school  in  Stratford  for  teaching  English 


SHAKESPEARE'S  TOWN. 


147 


— the  writer  quaintly  remarking  that  schools 
for  the  teaching  of  Latin  are  numerous, 
while  no  school  for  teaching  English  exists, 
that  he  can  discover.  These  papers  have 
been  classified  and  arranged  by  Richard 
Savage,  but  nothing  directly  pertinent  to 
Shakespeare  has  been  found  in  them.  I 
saw  a deed  that  bore  the  “ mark  ” of  Joan, 
sister  of  Mary  Arden,  Shakespeare’s  mother, 
but  this  may  not  be  a recent  discovery.  All 
these  papers  are  written  in  that  “ cramped 
penmanship”  which  baffled  Tony  Lumpkin 
— and  which  baffles  much  wiser  people  than 
he  was.  Richard  Savage,  however,  is  skil- 
ful in  reading  this  crooked  and  queer  cali- 
graphy ; and  the  materials  and  the  duty  of 
exploring  them  are  in  the  right  hands. 
When  the  researches  and  conclusions  of  this 
scholar  are  published  they  will  augment 
the  mass  of  evidence  already  extant — much 
of  it  well  presented  by  Halliwell-Phillips — 
that  the  writer  of  Shakespeare’s  plays 1 was 
a man  familiar  with  the  neighbourhood,  the 
names,  and  the  everyday  life  of  Stratford- 
upon-Avon  ; a fact  which  is  not  without  its 
admonitory  suggestiveness  to  those  credu- 

1 A cogent  paper  on  this  subject,  the  learned  and 
logical  work  of  John  Taylor,  Esq.,  may  be  found  in 
the  London  Athenaeum,  February  9,  1889. 


I48  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

lous  persons  who  incline  to  heed  the  igno- 
rant and  idle  theories  and  conjectures  of 
Mr.  Ignatius  Donnelly.  That  dense  person 
visited  Shakespeare’s  town  in  the  summer 
of  1888,  and  surveyed  the  scenes  that  are 
usually  viewed,  and  was  entertained  by  the 
vicar,  the  Rev.  George  Arbuthnot ; but  he 
attracted  no  attention  other  than  the  con- 
tempt he  deserves.  “ He  did  not  address 
himself  to  me,”  said  Miss  Chataway,  who 
was  then  at  the  Birthplace,  as  its  custodian  ; 
“ had  he  done  so  I should  have  informed  him 
that,  in  Stratford,  Bacon  is  all  gammon.” 
She  was  right.  So  it  is.  And  not  alone  in 
Stratford,  but  wherever  men  and  women 
have  eyes  to  see  and  brains  to  understand. 

The  spot  on  which  Shakespeare  died 
ought  surely  to  be  deemed  as  sacred  as  the 
spot  on  which  he  was  born  : yet  New  Place 
is  not  as  much  visited  as  the  Birthplace — 
perhaps  because  so  little  of  it  remains. 
Only  537  visitors  went  there  during  the 
year  ending  April  13,  1888.  In  repairing 
the  custodian’s  house  at  New  Place  the 
crossed  timbers  in  the  one-remaining  frag- 
ment of  the  north  wall  of  the  original  struc- 
ture were  found  beneath  plaster.  These 
have  been  left  uncovered,  and  their  dark 
lines  add  to  the  picturesque  effect  of  the 


SHAKESPEARE'S  TOWN. 


149 


place.  The  aspect  of  the  old  house  prior 
to  1742  is  known  but  vaguely,  even  if  it  be 
known  at  all.  Shakespeare  bought  it  in 
1597  when  he  was  thirty- three  years  old, 
and  he  kept  it  till  his  death,  nineteen  years 
later.  The  street  — Chapel  Lane  — that 
separates  it  from  the  Guild  Chapel  was 
narrower  than  it  is  now,  and  the  house  stood 
in  a grassy  enclosure,  encircled  by  a wall, 
the  entrance  to  the  garden  being  at  some 
distance  down  the  lane,  toward  the  river. 
The  chief  rooms  in  New  Place  were  faced 
with  square,  sunken  panels  of  oak,  which 
covered  the  walls  from  floor  to  roof  and 
probably  formed  the  ceilings.  Some  of 
these  panels — obtained  when  Mr.  Gastrell 
tore  down  this  house  in  1759 — may  be  seen 
in  a parlour  of  the  Falcon  Hotel.  There  is 
nothing  left  of  New  Place  but  the  old  well 
in  the  cellar,  the  fragments  of  the  founda- 
tion, the  lintel,  the  armorial  stone,  and  the 
fragment  of  wall  that  forms  part  of  the 
custodian’s  house.  That  custodian,  Mr. 
Bower  Bulmer,  a pleasant,  appreciative 
man,  always  attentive  and  genial,  died  on 
January  17,  1888,  and  his  widow  has  suc- 
ceeded him  in  office.  Another  conspicuous 
and  interesting  Stratford  figure,  well  known, 
and  for  a long  time,  was  J ohn  Marshall,  the 


150  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

antiquary,  who  died  on  June  25,  1887.  Mr. 
Marshall  occupied  the  building  near  to  New 
Place,  on  the  north  side,  and  between  the 
keeper’s  house  and  the  house  once  tenanted 
by  Julius  Shaw,  one  of  the  witnesses  to 
Shakespeare’s  will.  Mr.  Marshall  sold 
Shakespeare  souvenirs  and  quaint  furniture. 
He  had  remarkable  skill  in  carving,  and  his 
mind  was  full  of  knowledge  of  Shakespeare 
antiquities  and  the  traditional  lore  of  Strat- 
ford. His  kindness,  his  eccentric  ways,  his 
elaborate  forms  of  speech,  and  his  love  and 
faculty  for  art  commended  him  to  the  re- 
spect and  sympathy  of  all  who  really  knew 
him.  He  was  a character — and  in  such  a 
place  as  Stratford  such  quaint  beings  are  ap- 
propriate and  uncommonly  delightful.  He 
will  long  be  kindly  remembered,  long  missed 
from  his  accustomed  round.  He  rests  now 
in  an  unmarked  grave  in  Trinity  churchyard, 
close  to  the  bank  of  the  Avon — just  in  front 
of  the  stone  that  marks  the  sepulchre  of 
Mary  Pickering  ; by  which  token  the  future 
pilgrim  may  know  the  spot.  Marshall  was 
well  known  to  me,  and  we  had  many  a talk 
about  the  antiquities  of  the  town.  Among 
my  relics  there  is  a precious  piece  of  wood 
bearing  this  inscription,  written  by  him : 
“ Old  Oak  from  Shakespeare’s  Birth-place, 


SHAKESPEARE’S  TOWN.  Ifl 

taken  out  of  the  building  when  it  was  Re- 
stored in  1858  by  Mr.  William  Holtom,  the 
contractor  for  the  restoration,  who  supplied  it 
to  John  Marshall,  carver,  Stratford-on-Avon, 
and  presented  by  him  to  W.  Winter,  August 
27th,  1885,  J.  M.”  Another  valued  souvenir 
of  this  quaint  person  exists  in  the  possession 
of  Richard  Savage,  at  the  Birth-place — a fine 
carved  goblet,  made  from  the  wood  of  the 
renowned  mulberry-tree  that  was  planted 
by  the  poet  in  the  garden  of  New  Place,  but 
cut  down  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Gastrell  in  1756. 

At  the  Shakespeare  Birthplace  you  will 
no  longer  meet  with  those  gentle  ladies — so 
quaint,  so  characteristic,  so  harmonious 
with  the  place — Miss  Maria  Chataway  and 
Miss  Caroline  Chataway.  The  former  of 
these  was  the  official  custodian  of  the  cot- 
tage, and  the  latter  assisted  her  in  the 
work  of  its  exposition.  They  retired  from 
office  in  June  1889,  after  seventeen  years 
of  service,  the  former  aged  seventy-eight, 
the  latter  seventy-six ; and  now — being 
infirm,  and  incapable  of  the  active,  incessant 
labour  that  was  required  of  them  by  the 
multitude  of  visitors — they  dwell  in  a quiet 
house  in  the  Warwick  Road,  where  their 
friends  are  welcomed,  and  where  venerable 
and  honoured  age  will  henceforth  haunt 


152  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

the  chimney-corner,  and  “keep  the  flame 
from  wasting  by  repose.”1  The  new  guar- 
dian of  the  Shakespeare  Cottage  is  Joseph 
Skipsey,  of  Newcastle,  the  miner  poet : for 
Mr.  Skipsey  was  trained  in  the  mines  of 
Northumberland,  was  long  a labourer  in 
them,  and  his  muse  sings  in  the  simple 
accents  of  nature.  He  is  the  author  of  an 
essay  on  Burns,  and  of  various  other  essays 
and  miscellaneous  writings.  An  edition  of 
his  poems,  under  the  title  of  “ Carols,  Songs, 
and  Ballads  ” has  been  published  in  London, 
by  Walter  Scott,  and  that  book  will  be 
found  interesting  by  those  who  enjoy  the 
study  of  original  character  and  of  a rhyth- 
mical expression  that  does  not  savour  of  the 
poetical  schools.  Mr.  Skipsey  is  an  elderly 
man,  with  grizzled  hair,  a benevolent 
countenance,  and  a simple,  cordial  manner. 
He  spoke  to  me,  with  much  animation, 
about  American  poets,  and  especially  about 
Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  in  whose  rare  and 
fine  genius  he  manifested  a deep,  thoughtful, 
and  gratifying  interest.  Mr.  Skipsey  is 
assisted  at  the  Shakespeare  Cottage  by  his 
amiable  wife.  The  visitor  no  longer  hears 
that  earnest,  formal,  characteristic  recital, 
descriptive  of  the  house,  that  was  given 
i Miss  Maria  Chataway  died  on  January  31,  1891. 


SHAKESPEARE’S  TOWN. 


153 


daily  and  repeatedly  for  so  many  years  by 
Miss  Caroline  Chataway, — that  delightful 
allusion  to  ‘‘the  mighty  dome”  that  was 
the  “fit  place  for  the  mighty  brain”;  but 
doubtless  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Skipsey  will,  in 
time,  concoct  a narrative  of  sufficient  quaint- 
ness. The  Birthplace  acquires  new  treasures 
from  year  to  year — mainly  in  its  library, 
which  is  kept  in  perfect  order  by  Richard 
Savage,  that  ideal  antiquarian,  who  even 
collects  and  retains  the  bits  of  the  stone 
floor  of  the  Shakespeare  room  that  become 
detached  by  age.  In  this  library  is  preserved 
the  original  manuscript  of  Wheler’s  History 
of  Stratford,  together  with  his  own  anno- 
tated and  interleaved  copy  of  the  printed 
book,  which  is  thus  enriched  with  much 
new  material  relative  to  the  antiquities  of 
the  storied  town. 

In  the  Washington  Irving  parlour  of  the 
Red  Horse  the  American  traveller  will  find 
many  objects  that  are  specially  calculated 
to  please  his  fancy  and  to  deepen  his  interest 
in  the  place.  Among  these  are  the  chair  in 
which  Irving  sat;  the  sexton’s  clock  to 
which  he  refers  in  the  Sketch  Book ; an 
autograph  letter  by  him  ; another  by  Long- 
fellow ; a view  of  Irving’s  house  of  Sunny- 
side  ; and  pictures  of  Junius  Booth,  Edwin 


154  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

Booth,  the  elder  and  the  present  Jefferson, 
Miss  Mary  Anderson,  Miss  Ada  Rehan, 
Elliston,  Farren,  Salvini,  Henry  Irving, 
and  Ellen  Terry.  To  invest  this  storied 
room  with  an  atmosphere  at  once  liter- 
ary and  dramatic  was  the  intention 
its  decorator,  and  this  object  has  been 
attained.  When  Washington  Irving  visited 
Stratford  and  lodged  at  the  Red  Horse 
the  “pretty  chambermaid,”  to  whom  he 
alludes  in  his  gentle  and  genial  account  of 
that  experience,  was  Sally  Garner — then 
in  fact  a middle-aged  woman,  and  plain 
rather  than  pretty.  The  head  waiter  was 
William  Webb.  Both  those  persons  lived  to 
an  advanced  age.  Sally  Garner  was  retired, 
on  a pension,  by  the  late  Mr.  Gardner, 
former  proprietor  of  the  Red  Horse,  and 
she  died  at  Tanworth  and  was  buried  there. 
Webb  died  at  Stratford.  He  had  been  a 
waiter  at  the  Red  Horse  for  sixty  years,  and 
he  was  esteemed  by  all  who  knew  him.  His 
grave,  in  Stratford  churchyard,  remained 
unmarked,  and  it  is  one  among  the  many 
that  were  levelled  and  obliterated  in  1888, 
by  order  of  the  present  vicar.  A few  of 
the  older  residents  of  the  town  might  per 
haps  be  able  to  indicate  its  situation ; but, 
practically,  this  relic  of  the  past  is  gone- 


SHAKESPEARE’S  TOWN. 


155 


and  with  it  vanishes  an  element  of  valuable 
interest  to  the  annual  multitude  of  Shake- 
spearean pilgrims  upon  whom  the  prosperity 
of  Stratford  is  largely  dependent,  and  for 
whom,  if  not  for  the  inhabitants,  every 
relic  of  its  past  should  be  perpetuated. 
This  sentiment  is  not  without  its  practical 
influence.  Among  other  good  results  of  it 
is  the  restoration  of  the  ancient  timber  front 
and  the  quaint  gables  of  the  Shakespeare 
Inn,  which,  already  hallowed  by  its  associa- 
tion with  Garrick  and  the  Jubilee  of 
September  7,  1769,  has  now  become  one  of 
the  most  picturesque,  attractive,  and  repre- 
sentative buildings  in  Stratford. 

There  is  a resolute  disposition  among 
Stratford  people  to  save  and  perpetuate 
everything  that  is  associated,  however  re- 
motely, with  the  great  name  of  Shakespeare. 
Mr.  C.  F.  Loggin,  a chemist  in  the  High 
Street,  possesses  a lock  and  key  that  were 
affixed  to  one  of  the  doors  in  Hew  Place, 
and  also  a sundial,  that  reposed  upon  a 
pedestal  in  Hew  Place  garden,  presumably 
in  Shakespeare’s  time.  The  lock  is  made  of 
brass  ; the  key  of  iron,  with  an  ornamented 
handle,  of  graceful  design,  but  broken.  On 
the  lock  appears  an  inscription  stating  that 
it  was  “taken  from  Hew  Place  in  the  year 


156 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


1759,  and  preserved  by  John  Lord,  Esq.” 
The  sundial  is  made  of  copper,  and  upon 
its  surface  are  Roman  numerals  distributed 
around  the  outer  edge  of  the  circle  that  en- 
closes its  rays.  The  corners  of  the  plate 
are  broken,  and  one  side  of  it  is  bent.  This 
injury  was  done  to  it  by  thieves,  who 
wrenched  it  from  its  setting,  on  a night  in 
1759,  and  were  just  making  away  with  it 
when  they  were  captured  and  deprived  of 
their  plunder.  The  sundial  also  bears  an 
inscription,  certifying  that  it  was  preserved 
by  Mr.  Lord.  New  Place  Garden  was  at 
one  time  owned  by  one  of  Mr.  Loggin’s 
relatives,  and  from  that  former  owner  these 
Shakespearean  relics  were  derived.  Shake- 
speare’s hand  may  have  touched  this  lock, 
and  Shakespeare’s  eyes  may  have  looked 
upon  this  dial — perhaps  on  the  day  when 
he  made  Jacques  draw  the  immortal  picture 
of  Touchstone  in  the  forest,  moralising  on 
the  flight  of  time  and  the  evanescence  of 
earthly  things.  “As  You  Like  It”  was 
written  in  1599. 

Another  remote  relic  of  Shakespeare  is 
the  shape  of  the  foundation  of  Bishopton 
Church,  which  remains  distinctly  traced,  by 
ridges  of  the  velvet  sod,  in  a green  field  a 
little  to  the  north-west  of  Stratford,  in  the 


SHAKESPEARE’S  TOWN. 


157 


direction  of  Wilmcote — the  birthplace  of 
Shakespeare’s  mother,  Mary  Arden.  The 
parish  of  Bishopton  adjoins  that  of  Shottery, 
and  Bishopton  is  one  of  the  three  places 
mentioned  in  association  with  Shakespeare’s 
marriage  with  Anne  Hathaway.  Many 
scholars,  indeed,  incline  to  think  that  the 
wedding  occurred  there.  The  church  was 
demolished  about  eighty  years  ago.  The 
house  in  Wilmcote,  in  which,  as  tradition 
declares,  Mary  Arden  was  born,  is  seen  at 
the  eastern  entrance  to  the  village,  and  is 
conspicuous  for  its  quaint  gables  and  for  its 
mellow  colours  and  impressive  antiquity. 
Wilmcote  is  rougher  in  aspect  than  most 
of  the  villages  of  Warwickshire,  and  the 
country  immediately  around  it  is  wild  and 
bleak ; but  the  hedges  are  full  of  wild- 
flowers,  and  are  haunted  by  many  birds  ; 
and  the  wide,  green,  lonesome  fields,  especi- 
ally when  you  see  them  in  the  gloaming, 
possess  that  air  of  melancholy  solitude — 
vague,  dream-like,  and  poetic  rather  than 
sad — which  always  strongly  sways  the 
imaginative  mind.  Inside  the  Mary  Arden 
Cottage  I saw  nothing  remarkable  except 
the  massive  old  timbers.  This  house,  and 
also  the  Anne  Hathaway  cottage  at  Shot- 
tery, ought  to  be  purchased  and  added  to 


158  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

“the  Amalgamated  Trusts  of  Shakespeare’s 
Birthplace,  the  Museum,  and  New  Place.” 
The  Anne  Hathaway  cottage  is  falling  into 
decay  ; it  needs  care  ; and  as  an  authentic 
relic  of  Shakespeare  and  a charming  bit  of 
rustic  antiquity,  its  preservation  is  impor- 
tant, as  well  to  lovers  of  the  poet,  all  the 
world  over,  as  to  the  town  of  Stratford, 
which  thrives  by  his  renown.  The  beauti- 
ful Guild  Chapel  also  needs  care.  The 
hand  of  restoration  should,  indeed,  touch  it 
lightly  and  reverently ; but  restored  it 
must  be,  at  no  distant  day,  for  every 
autumn  storm  shakes  down  fragments  of 
its  fretted  masonry  and  despoils  the  vener- 
able grandeur  of  that  gray  tower  on  which 
Shakespeare  so  often  gazed  from  the  windows 
of  his  hallowed  home.  Whatever  is  done 
here,  fortunately  for  the  Shakespearean 
world,  will  be  done  under  the  direction  of 
a man  of  noble  spirit,  rare  ability,  sound 
scholarship,  and  fine  taste — the  Rev.  R.  S. 
De  Courcy  Laffan,  the  headmaster  of  the 
Grammar  School,  and  therefore  pastor  of 
the  Guild.  Liberal  in  thought,  manly  in 
character,  simple,  sincere,  and  full  of  sensi- 
bility and  goodness,  this  preacher  strongly 
impresses  all  who  approach  him,  and  is  one 
of  the  most  imposing  figures  in  the  pulpit 


SHAKESPEARE’S  TOWN.  1 59 

of  his  time.  And  he  is  a reverent  Shake- 
spearean. 

A modern  feature  of  Stratford,  interesting 
to  the  Shakespeare  pilgrim,  is  Lord  Ronald 
Gower’s  statue  of  the  poet,  erected  in 
October  1888,  in  the  Memorial  Garden. 
This  work  is  infelicitous  in  its  site  and  not 
fortunate  in  all  of  its  details,  but  in  some 
particulars  it  is  fine.  It  consists  of  a huge 
pedestal,  on  the  top  of  which  is  the  full- 
length  bronze  figure  of  Shakespeare,  seated 
in  a chair,  while  at  the  four  corners  of  the 
base  are  bronze  effigies  of  Hamlet , Lady 
Macbeth , Henry  the  Fifth , and  Falstaff. 
Hamlet  is  the  expression  of  a noble  ideal. 
The  face  and  figure  are  wasted  with  misery, 
yet  full  of  thought  and  strength.  The  type 
of  man  thus  embodied  will  at  once  be  re- 
cognised— an  imperial,  powerful,  tender, 
gracious,  but  darkly  introspective  nature, 
broken  and  subjugated  by  hopeless  grief 
and  by  vain  brooding  over  the  mystery  of 
life  and  death.  Lady  Macbeth  is  depicted 
in  her  sleep-walking,  and,  although  the 
figure  is  treated  in  a conventional  manner, 
it  certainly  conveys  the  idea  of  remorse  and 
of  physical  attenuation  from  suffering,  and 
likewise  the  sense  of  being  haunted  and 
accursed.  Prince  Henry  is  represented  as 


160  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

he  may  have  appeared  when  putting  on 
his  dying  father’s  kingly  crown.  The  figure 
is  lithe,  graceful,  and  spirited ; the  pose  is 
true,  and  the  action  is  natural ; but  the 
personality  is  deficient  of  identity  and  of 
royal  distinction.  Falstaff  appears  as  a fat 
man  who  is  a type  of  gross,  chuckling 
humour  ; so  that  this  image  might  stand  for 
Gambrinus.  The  intellect  and  the  pre- 
dominant character  of  Falstaff  are  not  indi- 
cated. The  figures  are  dwarfed,  futhermore, 
by  the  size  of  the  stone  which  they  surround 
— a huge  pillar,  upon  which  appropriate  lines 
from  Shakespeare,  selected  by  Charles 
Edward  Flower,  have  been  inscribed.  The 
statue  of  Shakespeare  shows  a man  of  solid 
self-concentration  and  adamantine  will ; an 
observer,  of  universal  view  and  incessant 
vigilance.  The  chief  feature  of  it  is  the 
piercing  look  of  the  eyes.  This  is  a man 
who  sees,  ponders,  and  records.  Imagina- 
tion and  sensibility,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
not  suggested.  The  face  lacks  modelling : 
it  is  as  smooth  as  the  face  of  a child  ; there 
is  not  one  characteristic  curve  or  wrinkle  in 
all  its  placid  expanse.  Perhaps  it  was  de- 
signed to  express  an  idea  of  eternal  youth. 
The  man  who  had  gained  Shakespeare’s 
obvious  experience  must  have  risen  to  a 


SHAKESPEARE’S  TOWN.  l6l 

composure  not  to  be  ruffled  by  anything 
that  this  world  can  do  to  bless  or  to  ban  a 
human  life.  But  the  record  of  his  struggle 
must  have  been  written  in  his  face.  This 
may  be  a fine  statue  of  a practical  thinker, 
but  it  is  not  the  image  of  a poet,  and  it  is 
not  an  adequate  presentment  of  Shakespeare. 
The  structure  stands  on  the  south  side  of 
the  Memorial  Building,  and  within  a few 
feet  of  it,  so  that  it  is  almost  swallowed  up 
by  what  was  intended  for  its  background. 
It  would  show  to  better  advantage  if  it 
were  placed  further  to  the  south,  looking 
down  the  long  reach  of  the  Avon  toward 
Shakespeare’s  Church.  The  form  of  the 
poet  could  then  be  seen  from  the  spot  on 
which  he  died,  while  his  face  would  still 
look,  as  it  does  now,  toward  his  tomb. 

A constant  stream  of  American  visitors 
pours  annually  through  the  Bed  Horse  Inn. 
Within  three  days  of  July  1889  more  than 
a hundred  American  names  appeared  in  the 
register.  The  spirit  of  Washington  Irving 
is  mighty  yet.  Looking  through  a few  of 
the  old  registers  of  this  house,  I came 
upon  many  familiar  names  of  distinguished 
Americans.  Bayard  Taylor  came  here  on 
July  23,  1856  ; James  E.  Murdoch  (the 
famous  Hamlet  and  Mirabel  of  other  days) 

L 


1 6 2 GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

on  August  31,  1856 ; Rev.  Francis  Vinton 
on  June  10,  1857  ; Henry  Ward  Beecher  on 
June  22,  1862;  Elihu  Burritt,  “the  learned 
blacksmith,”  on  September  19,  1865  ; George 
Ripley  on  May  12,  1866.  Poor  “ Artemus 
Ward”  arrived  on  September  18,  1866 — only 
a little  while  before  his  death,  which  oc- 
curred in  March  1867  at  Southampton. 
The  Rev.  Charles  T.  Brooks,  translator  of 
“Faust, ’’registered  his  name  here  on  Septem- 
ber 20,  1866.  Charles  Dudley  Warner  came 
on  May  6, 1868  ; Mr.  and  Mrs.  W.  J.  Florence 
on  May  29,  1868 ; and  S.  R.  Gifford  and 
Jervis  M‘Entee  on  the  same  day.  The  poet 
Longfellow,  accompanied  by  Tom  Appleton, 
arrived  on  June  23,  1868.  These  Red  Horse 
registers  contain  a unique  and  remarkable  col- 
lection of  autographs.  Within  a few  pages, 
I observed  the  curiously  contrasted  signa- 
tures of  Cardinal  Wiseman,  Sam  Cowell,  the 
Due  d’Aumale,  Tom  Thumb,  Miss  Burdett- 
Coutts  (1861),  Blanchard  Jerrold,  Edmund 
Yates,  Charles  Fechter,  Andrew  Carnegie, 
David  Gray  (of  Buffalo),  the  Duchess  of 
Coburg,  Moses  H.  Grinnell,  Lord  Leigh  of 
Stoneleigh  Abbey,  J.  M.  Bellew,  Samuel 
Longfellow,  Charles  and  Henry  Webb  (the 
Dromios),  Edna  Dean  Proctor,  Gerald 
Massey,  Clarence  A.  Seward,  Frederick 


SHAKESPEARE’S  TOWN.  1 63 

Maccabe,  M.  D.  Conway,  the  Prince  of 
Cond6,  and  John  L.  Toole.  That  this  re- 
pository of  autographs  is  appreciated  may 
be  inferred  from  the  fact  that  special  vigil- 
ance has  to  be  exercised  to  prevent  the 
hotel  registers  from  being  carried  off  or 
mutilated.  The  volume  containing  the  sig- 
nature of  Washington  Irving  was  stolen 
years  ago,  and  it  has  been  vaguely  heard 
of  as  being  in  America. 

There  is  a collection  of  autographs  of 
visitors  to  the  Shakespeare  Birthplace  that 
was  gathered  many  years  since  by  Mary 
Hornby,  custodian  of  that  cottage  (it  was 
she  who  whitewashed  the  walls  in  order  to 
obliterate  the  writings  upon  them,  when  she 
was  removed  from  her  office  in  1820),  and  this 
is  now  in  the  possession  of  her  granddaugh- 
ter, Mrs.  Smith,  a resident  in  Stratford  ; but 
many  valuable  names  have  been  taken  from 
it — among  others  that  of  Lord  Byron,  who 
visited  Stratford,  probably  in  1806,  when 
staying  at  Malvern.  His  visit  is  said  to  have 
been  made  in  August  1816,  but  that  is  mani- 
festly an  inaccurate  statement,  since  he  left 
England  on  April  25,  1816,  never  to  return — 
till  he  was  brought  home  dead.  The  mania 
for  obtaining  relics  of  Stratford  antiquity 
is  remarkable.  Mention  is  made  of  an  un- 


164  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

known  lady  who  came  to  the  birth-room  of 
Shakespeare,  and,  after  begging  in  vain  for 
a piece  of  the  woodwork  or  of  the  stone, 
presently  knelt  and  wiped  the  floor  with 
her  glove,  which  then  she  carefully  rolled 
up  and  secreted,  declaring  that  she  would, 
at  least,  possess  some  of  the  dust  of  that 
sacred  chamber.  It  is  a creditable  senti- 
ment, though  not  altogether  a rational  one, 
that  impels  devotional  persons  to  such  con- 
duct as  this ; but  the  entire  Shakespeare 
cottage  would  soon  disappear  if  such  a pas- 
sion for  relics  were  practically  gratified. 
The  elemental  feeling  is  one  of  reverence, 
and  this  is  perhaps  indicated  in  the  follow- 
ing lines  with  which  the  present  writer  be- 
gan a new  volume  of  the  Red  Horse  register, 
on  July  21,  1889  : — 

Shakespeare. 

While  evening  waits  and  hearkens, 

While  yet  the  song-bird  calls,-- 
Before  the  last  light  darkens, 

Before  the  last  leaf  falls, — 

Once  more  with  reverent  feeling 
This  sacred  shrine  I seek  ; 

By  silent  awe  revealing 
The  love  I cannot  speak. 


XI. 


DP  AND  DOWN  THE  AVON. 

STRATFORD-UPON-AVON,  August  22, 
1889. — The  river  life  of  Stratford  is 
one  of  the  chief  delights  of  this  delightful 
town.  The  Avon,  according  to  law,  is 
navigable  from  its  mouth,  at  Tewkesbury, 
where  it  empties  into  the  Severn,  as  far 
upward  as  Warwick  ; but  according  to  fact 
it  is  passable  only  to  the  resolute  navigator 
who  can  surmount  obstacles.  From  Tewkes- 
bury up  to  Evesham  there  is  plain  sail- 
ing. Above  Evesham  there  are  occasional 
barriers.  At  Stratford  there  is  an  abrupt 
pause  at  the  Lucy  Mill,  and  your  boat 
must  be  taken  ashore  and  dragged  a little 
way  over  the  meadow,  and  so  launched 
again.  The  Lucy  Mill  is  just  below  the 
Shakespeare  Church,  and  from  this  point 
up  to  Clopton’s  Bridge  the  river  is  broad. 
Here  the  boat-races  are  rowed  almost  every 
year.  Here  the  stream  ripples  against  the 
pleasure-ground  called  the  Bancroft,  skirts 

165 


1 66  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

the  gardens  of  the  Shakespeare  Memorial, 
glides  past  the  lovely  lawns  of  Avonbank — 
the  home  of  that  noble  public  benefactor 
and  fine  Shakespearean  scholar,  Charles 
Edward  Flower — and  breaks  upon  the  sus- 
taining wall  of  the  churchyard,  crowned 
with  the  high  and  thick-leaved  elms  that 
nod  and  whisper  over  Shakespeare’s  dust. 
The  town  lies  on  the  left  or  west  bank  of 
the  Avon,  as  you  ascend  the  river,  looking 
northward.  On  the  right  or  east  bank 
there  is  a wide  stretch  of  meadow.  To 
float  along  here  in  the  gloaming,  when  the 
bats  are  winging  their  “ cloistered  flight,” 
when  the  great  flocks  of  starlings  are  flying 
rapidly  over,  when  “the  crow  makes  wing 
to  the  rooky  wood,”  when  the  water  is  as 
smooth  as  a mirror  of  burnished  steel,  and 
equally  the  grasses  and  flowers  upon  the 
banks  and  the  stately  trees  and  the  gray 
and  solemn  and  beautiful  church  are  re- 
flected deep  in  the  lucid  stream,  is  an  ex- 
perience of  thoughtful  pleasure  that  sinks 
deep  into  the  heart  and  will  never  be  for- 
gotten. You  do  not  know  Stratford  till 
you  know  the  Avon. 

From  Clopton’s  Bridge  upward  the  river 
winds  capriciously  between  banks  that  are 
sometimes  fringed  with  willows  and  some- 


UP  AND  DOWN  THE  AVON.  1 67 

times  bordered  with  grassy  meadows  or 
patches  of  woodland  or  cultivated  lawns, 
enclosing  villas  that  seem  the  chosen  homes 
of  all  this  world  can  give  of  loveliness  and 
peace.  The  course  is  now  entirely  clear  for 
several  miles.  Not  till  you  pass  the  foot  of 
Alveston  village  does  any  obstacle  present 
itself  ; but  here,  as  well  as  a little  further 
on,  by  Hatton  Rock,  the  stream  runs 
shallow  and  the  current  becomes  very  swift, 
dashing  over  sandy  banks  and  great  masses 
of  tangled  grass  and  weeds.  These  are  “the 
rapids,”  and  through  these  the  mariner  must 
make  his  way  by  adroit  steering  and  a vigor- 
ous and  expert  use  of  oars  and  boat-hooks. 
The  Avon  now  is  bowered  by  tall  trees,  and 
upon  the  height  that  it  skirts  you  see  the 
house  of  Ryon  Hill — celebrated  in  the  novel 
of  Asphodely  by  Miss  Braddon.  This  part  of 
the  river,  closed  in  from  the  world,  and  show- 
ing in  each  direction  twinkling  vistas  of  sun 
and  shadow,  is  especially  lovely.  Here,  in 
a quiet  hour,  the  creatures  that  live  along 
these  shores  will  freely  show  themselves 
and  their  busy  ways.  The  water-rat  comes 
out  of  his  hole  and  nibbles  at  the  reeds  or 
swims  sturdily  across  the  stream.  The 
moor-hen  flutters  out  of  her  nest  among  the 
long,  green  rushes  and  skims  from  bank  to 


1 68  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

bank.  The  nimble  little  wagtail  flashes 
through  the  foliage.  The  squirrel  leaps 
among  the  boughs,  and  the  rabbit  scampers 
into  the  thicket.  Sometimes  a kingfisher, 
with  his  shining  azure  shield,  pauses  for  a 
moment  among  the  gnarled  roots  upon  the 
brink.  Sometimes  a heron,  disturbed  in 
her  nest,  rises  suddenly  upon  her  great 
wings  and  soars  grandly  away.  Once,  row- 
ing down  this  river  at  nearly  midnight,  I 
surprised  an  otter  and  heard  the  splash  of 
his  precipitate  retreat.  The  ghost  of  an  old 
gypsy,  who  died  by  suicide  upon  this 
wooded  shore,  is  said  to  haunt  the  neigh- 
bouring crag  ; but  this,  like  all  other  ghosts 
that  ever  I came  near,  eluded  equally  my 
vision  and  my  desire.  But  it  is  a weird  spot 
at  night. 

Near  Alveston  Mill  you  must  drag  your 
boat  over  a narrow  strip  of  land  and  launch 
her  again  for  Charlecote.  Now  once  more 
this  delicious  water-way  is  broad  and  fine 
as  it  sweeps  past  the  stately,  secluded  homes 
upon  the  Warwick  Road.  A great  bed  of 
white  water-lilies  (hitherto  they  have  all 
been  yellow)  presently  adorns  it,  and  soon 
there  are  glimpses  of  the  deer  that  browse 
or  prance  or  slumber  beneath  the  magnifi- 
cent oaks  and  elms  and  limes  and  chestnuts 


UP  AND  DOWN  THE  AVON.  1 69 

of  Charlecote  Park.  No  view  of  Charlecote 
can  compare  with  the  view  of  it  that  is 
obtained  from  the  river;  and  if  its  pro- 
prietor values  its  reputation  for  beauty,  he 
ought  to  be  glad  that  lovers  of  the  beautiful 
sometimes  have  an  opportunity  to  see  it 
from  this  point.  The  older  wing,  with  its 
oriel  window  and  quaint  belfry,  is  of  a 
peculiar,  mellow  red  colour,  relieved  against 
bright  green  ivy,  to  which  only  the  brush 
of  an  artist  could  do  justice.  Nothing  more 
delicious,  in  its  way,  is  to  be  found  ; at 
least,  the  only  piece  of  architecture  in  this 
region  that  excels  it  in  beauty  of  colour  is 
the  ancient  house  of  Compton- Winy  ate ; 
but  that  is  a marvel  of  loveliness,  the  gem 
of  Warwickshire,  and  surpasses  all  its 
fellows.  The  towers  of  the  main  building  of 
Charlecote  are  octagon,  and  a happy  alterna- 
tion of  thin  and  slender  with  stout  and 
stunted  turrets  much  enhances  the  effect  of 
quaintness  in  this  grave  and  opulent  edifice. 
A walled  terrace,  margined  with  urns  and 
blazing  with  flowers  of  gold  and  crimson, 
extends  from  the  river  front  to  the  water 
side,  and  terminates  in  a broad  flight  of 
stone  steps,  at  the  foot  of  which  are  moored 
the  barges  of  the  house  of  Lucy.  No  spec- 
tacle could  suggest  more  of  aristocratic 


170  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

state  and  austere  magnificence  than  this 
sequestered  edifice  does,  standing  there, 
silent,  antique,  venerable,  gorgeous,  sur- 
rounded by  its  vast,  thick-wooded  park, 
and  musing,  as  it  has  done  for  hundreds 
of  years,  on  the  silver  Avon  that  murmurs 
at  its  base.  Close  by  there  is  a lovely 
waterfall,  over  which  some  little  tributary 
of  the  river  descends  in  a fivefold  wave  of 
shimmering  crystal,  wafting  a music  that  is 
heard  in  every  chamber  of  the  house  and  in 
all  the  fields  and  woodlands  round  about. 
It  needs  the  sun  to  bring  out  the  rich  colours 
of  Charlecote,  but  once  when  I saw  it  from 
the  river  a storm  was  coming  on,  and  vast 
masses  of  black  and  smoke-coloured  cloud 
were  driving  over  it  in  shapeless  blocks  and 
jagged  streamers,  while  countless  frightened 
birds  were  whirling  above  it ; and  presently, 
when  the  fierce  lightning  flashed  across  the 
heavens  and  the  deluge  of  rain  descended 
and  beat  upon  it,  a more  romantic  sight  was 
never  seen. 

Above  Charlecote  the  Avon  grows  narrow 
for  a space,  and  after  you  pass  under  Hamp- 
ton Lucy  Bridge  your  boat  is  much  entangled 
in  river  grass  and  much  impeded  by  whirls 
and  eddies  of  the  shallowing  stream.  There 
is  another  mill  at  Hampton  Lucy,  and  a 


(JP  AND  DOWN  THE  AVON.  171 

little  way  beyond  the  village  your  further 
progress  upward  is  stopped  by  a waterfall — 
beyond  which,  however,  and  accessible  by 
the  usual  expedient  of  dragging  the  boat 
over  the  land,  a noble  reach  of  the  river 
is  disclosed,  stretching  away  toward  War- 
wick, where  the  wonderful  Castle,  and 
sweet  St.  Mary’s  tower,  and  Leicester’s 
Hospital,  and  the  cosy  Warwick  Arms 
await  your  coming — with  mouldering  Kenil- 
worth and  majestic  Stoneleigh  Abbey  re* 
served  to  lure  you  still  further  afield.  But 
the  scene  around  Hampton  Lucy  is  not  one 
to  be  quickly  left.  There  the  meadows  are 
rich  and  green  and  fragrant.  There  the 
large  trees  give  grateful  shade  and  make 
sweet  music  in  the  summer  wind.  There, 
from  the  ruddy  village,  thin  spires  of  blue 
smoke  curl  upward  through  the  leaves  and 
seem  to  tell  of  comfort  and  content  beneath. 
At  a little  distance  the  gray  tower  of  the 
noble  church— an  edifice  of  peculiar  and 
distinctive  majesty,  and  one  well  worthy  of 
the  exceptional  beauty  enshrined  within  it 
— rears  itself  among  the  elms.  Close  by  the 
sleek  and  indolent  cattle  are  couched  upon 
the  cool  sod,  looking  at  you  with  large, 
quiet,  lustrous,  indifferent  eyes.  The  water- 
fall sings  on,  with  its  low  and  melancholy 


172 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


plaint,  while  sometimes  the  silver  foam  of 
it  is  caught  up  and  whirled  away  by  the 
breeze.  The  waves  sparkle  on  the  running 
stream,  and  the  wild-flowers,  in  gay  myriads, 
glance  and  glimmer  on  the  velvet  shore. 
And  so,  as  the  sun  is  setting  and  the  rooks 
begin  to  fly  homeward,  you  breathe  the 
fragrant  air  from  Scarbank  and  look  upon 
the  veritable  place  that  Shakespeare  had  in 
mind  when  he  wrote  his  line  of  endless 
melody — 

“ I know  a bank  where  the  wild  thyme 
blows.  ” 


XII. 


RAMBLES  IN  ARDEN. 

STRATFORD-UPON-AVON,  August 27, 
1889. — Among  the  many  charming 
rambles  that  may  be  enjoyed  in  the  vicinity 
of  Stratford,  the  ramble  to  Wootton-Wawen 
and  Henley-in- Arden  is  not  the  least  de- 
lightful. Both  these  places  are  on  the  Bir- 
mingham road  ; the  former  six  miles,  the 
latter  eight  miles  from  Stratford.  When 
you  stand  upon  the  bridge  at  Wootton  you 
are  only  one  hundred  miles  from  London, 
but  you  might  be  in  a wilderness  a thousand 
miles  from  any  city,  for  in  all  the  slumber- 
ous scene  around  you  there  is  no  hint  of 
anything  but  solitude  and  peace.  Close  by 
a cataract  tumbles  over  the  rocks  and  fills 
the  air  with  music.  Not  far  distant  rises 
the  stately  front  of  Wootton  Hall,  an  old 
manor-house,  surrounded  with  green  lawns 
and  bowered  by  majestic  elms,  which  has 
always  been  a Catholic  abode,  and  which  is 
never  rented  to  any  but  Catholic  tenants. 

173 


174  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

A cosy,  gabled  house,  standing  among  trees 
and  shrubs  a little  way  from  the  roadside, 
is  the  residence  of  the  priest  of  this  diocese 
— an  antiquarian  and  a scholar,  of  ample 
acquirements  and  fine  talent.  Across  the 
meadows,  in  one  direction,  peers  forth  a 
fine  specimen  of  the  timbered  cottage  of 
ancient  times — the  black  beams  conspicuous 
upon  the  white  surface  of  plaster.  Among 
the  trees,  in  another  direction,  appears 
the  great  gray  tower  of  Wootton-Wawen 
Church,  a venerable  relic,  and  one  in  which, 
by  means  of  the  varying  orders  of  its  archi- 
tecture, you  may  trace  the  whole  ecclesiasti- 
cal history  of  England.  The  approach  to  this 
church  is  through  a green  lane  and  a wicket- 
gate,  and  when  you  come  near  to  it  you 
find  that  it  is  surrounded  with  many  graves, 
some  marked  and  some  unmarked,  on  all  of 
which  the  long  grass  waves  in  rank  luxuri- 
ance and  whispers  softly  in  the  summer 
breeze.  The  place  seems  deserted.  Not 
a human  creature  is  anywhere  visible,  and 
the  only  sound  that  breaks  the  stillness  of 
this  August  afternoon  is  the  cawing  of  a 
few  rooks  in  the  lofty  tops  of  the  neighbour- 
ing elms.  The  actual  life  of  all  places, 
when  you  come  to  know  it  well,  proves  to 
be,  for  the  most  part,  conventional,  com- 


RAMBLES  IN  ARDEN. 


175 


monplace,  and  petty.  Human  beings, 
with  here  and  there  an  exception,  are  dull 
and  tedious,  each  resembling  the  other,  and 
each  needlessly  laborious  to  increase  that 
resemblance.  In  this  respect  all  parts  of 
the  world  are  alike — and  therefore  the 
happiest  traveller  is  he  who  keeps  mostly 
alone,  and  uses  his  eyes,  and  communes 
with  his  own  thoughts.  The  actual  life  of 
Wootton  is,  doubtless,  much  like  that  of 
other  hamlets  — a “noiseless  tenor 55  of 
church  squabbles,  village  gossip,  and  dis- 
contented grumbling,  diversified  with  feed- 
ing and  drinking,  lawn  tennis,  matrimony, 
birth,  and  death.  But  as  I looked  around 
upon  this  group  of  nestling  cottages,  these 
broad  meadows,  green  and  cool  in  the 
shadow  of  the  densely  mantled  trees,  and 
this  ancient  church,  gray  and  faded  with 
antiquity,  slowly  crumbling  to  pieces  amid 
the  fresh  and  everlasting  vitality  of  nature, 
I felt  that  surely  here  might  at  last  be  dis- 
covered a permanent  haven  of  refuge  from 
the  incessant  platitude  and  triviality  of 
ordinary  experience  and  the  strife  and  din 
of  the  world. 

Wootton -Wa wen  Church  is  one  of  the 
numerous  Catholic  buildings  of  about  the 
eleventh  century  that  still  survive  in  this 


176  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

realm,  devoted  now  to  Protestant  worship. 
It  has  been  partly  restored,  but  most  of  it  is 
in  a state  of  decay,  and  if  this  be  not  soon 
arrested  the  building  will  become  a ruin. 
Its  present  vicar,  the  Rev.  Francis  T. 
Bramston,  is  making  vigorous  efforts  to  in- 
terest the  public  in  the  preservation  of  this 
ancient  monument,  and  these  efforts  ought 
to  succeed.  A more  valuable  ecclesiastical 
relic  it  would  be  difficult  to  find,  even  in 
this  rich  region  of  antique  treasures,  the 
heart  of  England.  Its  sequestered  situation 
and  its  sweetly  rural  surroundings  invest  it 
with  peculiar  beauty.  It  is  associated, 
furthermore,  with  names  that  are  stately  in 
English  history  and  eminent  and  honoured 
in  English  literature — with  Henry  St.  John, 
Viscount  Bolingbroke,  whose  sister  reposes 
in  its  ancient  vaults,  and  with  William 
Somerville,  the  poet  who  wrote  “ The 
Chase.”  It  was  not  until  I actually  stood 
upon  his  tombstone  that  my  attention  was 
directed  to  the  name  of  this  old  author, 
and  to  the  presence  of  his  relics  in  this 
remote  and  lonely  place.  Somerville  lived 
and  died  at  Edston  Hall,  near  Wootton- 
Wawen,  and  was  famous  in  his  day  as  a 
Warwickshire  Squire  and  huntsman.  His 
grave  is  in  the  chancel  of  the  church,  and 


RAMBLES  IN  ARDEN. 


177 


the  following  excellent  epitaph,  written  by 
himself,  is  inscribed  upon  the  plain  blue 
stone  that  covers  it  : — 

h.  s.  E. 

OBIIT  17.  JULY.  1742. 

GULIELMUS  SOMERVILE.  ARM. 

SI  QUID  IN  ME  BONI  COMPERTUM 
HABEAS, 

IMITATE. 

SI  QUID  MALI,  TOTIS  VIRIBUS 
EVITA. 

CHRISTO  CONFIDE, 

ET  SCIAS  TE  QUOQUE  FRAGILEM 
ESSE 

ET  MORTALEM. 

Such  words  have  a meaning  that  sinks 
deep  into  the  heart  when  they  are  read 
upon  the  gravestone  that  covers  the  poet’s 
dust.  They  came  to  me  like  a message 
from  an  old  friend  who  had  long  been 
waiting  for  the  opportunity  of  this  solemn 
greeting  and  wise  counsel.  Another  epitaph 
written  by  Somerville — and  one  that  shows 
equally  the  kindness  of  his  heart  and  the 
quaintness  of  his  character — appears  upon  a 
little,  low,  lichen-covered  stone  in  Wootton- 
Wawen  churchyard,  where  it  commemorates 
his  huntsman  and  butler,  Jacob  Bocter, 
M 


i78 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


who  was  hurt  in  the  hunting-field,  and  died 
of  this  accident : — 


h.  s.  E. 

JACOBUS  BOCTER. 

GULIELMO  SOMERVILE  ARMIGRO 
PROMUS  ET  CANIBUS  VENATICIS 
PRAEPOSITOR 
DOMI.  FORISQUE  FIDELIS 
EQUO  INTER  VENANDUM  CORUENTE 
ET  INTESTINIS  GRA VITER  COLLISIS 
POST  TRIDUUM  DEPLORANDUS. 

OBIIT 

28  DIE  JAN. , 

ANNO  DNI  1719. 

AETAT  38. 

The  pilgrim  who  rambles  as  far  as  Woot- 
fcon-Wawen  will  surely  stroll  onward  to 
Henley-in-Arden.  The  whole  of  this  region 
was  originally  covered  by  the  Forest  of 
Arden1 — the  woods  that  Shakespeare  had 
in  mind  when  he  was  writing  “As  You 
Like  It,”  a comedy  whereof  the  atmo- 
sphere, foliage,  flowers,  scenery,  and  spirit 
are  purely  those  of  his  native  Warwick - 

i That  learned  antiquarian  W.  G.  Fretton,  Esq. , of 
Coventry,  has  shown  that  the  Forest  of  Arden  covered 
a large  tract  of  land  extending  many  miles  west  and 
north  of  the  bank  of  the  Avon,  around  Stratford. 


RAMBLES  IN  ARDEN. 


179 


shire.  Henley,  if  the  observer  may  judge 
by  the  numerous  inns  that  fringe  its  long, 
straggling,  picturesque  street,  must  once 
have  been  a favourite  halting-place  for  the 
coaches  that  plied  between  London  and 
Birmingham,  They  are  mostly  disused 
now,  and  the  little  town  sleeps  in  the  sun 
and  seems  forgotten.  There  is  a beautiful 
specimen  of  the  ancient  market-cross  in  its 
centre — gray  and  sombre  and  much  frayed 
by  the  tooth  of  time.  Close  beside  Henley, 
and  accessible  in  a walk  of  a few  minutes, 
is  the  Church  of  Beaudesert,  which  is  one  of 
the  most  precious  of  the  ecclesiastic  gems  of 
England.  Here  you  will  see  architecture 
of  mingled  Saxon  and  Norman — the  solid 
Norman  buttress,  the  castellated  tower,  the 
Saxon  arch  moulded  in  zig-zag,  which  is  more 
ancient  than  the  dog-tooth,  and  the  round, 
compact  columns  of  the  early  English  order. 
Above  the  church  rises  a noble  hill,  upon 
which,  in  the  middle  ages,  stood  a castle- 
probably  that  of  Peter  de  Montfort — and 
from  which  a comprehensive  and  superb 
view  may  be  obtained,  over  many  miles  of 
verdant  meadow  and  bosky  dell,  inter- 
spersed with  red-roofed  villages  from  which 
the  smoke  of  the  cottage-chimneys  curls 
up  in  thin  blue  spirals  under  the  gray 


i8o 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


and  golden  sunset  sky.  An  old  graveyard 
encircles  the  church,  and  by  its  orderly 
disorder  — the  quaint,  graceful  work  of 
capricious  time — enhances  the  charm  of  its 
venerable  and  storied  age.  There  are  only 
one  hundred  and  forty-six  members  of  the 
parish  of  Beaudesert.  I was  privileged  to 
speak  with  the  aged  rector,  the  Rev.  John 
Anthony  Peason  Linskill,  and  to  view  the 
church  under  his  kindly  guidance.  In  the 
ordinary  course  of  nature  it  is  unlikely  that 
we  shall  ever  meet  again,  but  his  goodness, 
his  benevolent  mind,  and  the  charm  of  his 
artless  talk  will  not  be  forgotten. 1 My  walk 
that  night  took  me  miles  away — to  Claver- 
don  and  home  by  Bearley  ; and  all  the  time 
it  wras  my  thought  that  the  best  moments 
of  our  lives  are  those  in  which  we  are 
touched,  chastened,  and  ennobled  by  part- 
ing and  by  grief.  Nothing  is  said  so  often 
as  good-bye.  But  in  the  lovely  words  of 
Cowper — 

“ The  path  of  sorrow,  and  that  path  alone, 
Leads  to  the  land  where  sorrow  is  unknown.” 


1 This  venerable  clergyman  died  in  the  rectory  of 
Beaudesert  in  April  1890,  and  was  buried  within  the 
shadow  of  the  church  that  he  loved. 


XIII. 


THE  STRATFORD  FOUNTAIN. 

AMERICAN  interest  in  Stratford-upon- 
Avon  springs  out  of  a love  for  the 
works  of  Shakespeare  as  profound  and 
passionate  as  that  of  the  most  sensitive  and 
reverent  of  the  poet’s  countrymen.  It  was 
the  father  of  American  literature — Washing- 
ton Irving — who  in  modern  times  made  the 
first  pilgrimage  to  that  Holy  Land,  and  set 
the  good  example,  which  since  has  been 
followed  by  thousands,  of  worship  at  the 
shrine  of  Shakespeare.  It  was  an  American 
— the  alert  and  expeditious  Barnum — who 
by  suddenly  proposing  to  buy  the  Shake- 
speare cottage  and  transfer  it  to  America 
startled  the  English  into  buying  it  for  the 
nation.  It  is,  in  part,  to  Americans  that 
Stratford  owes  the  Shakespeare  Memorial ; 
for  while  the  land  on  which  it  stands  was 
given  by  that  public-spirited  citizen  of 
Stratford,  Charles  Edward  Flower — a sound 

181 


1 82 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


and  fine  Shakespeare  scholar,  as  his  acting 
edition  of  the  plays  may  testify — and  while 
money  to  pay  for  the  building  of  it  was  freely 
contributed  by  wealthy  residents  of  War- 
wickshire, and  by  men  of  all  ranks  through- 
out the  kingdom,  the  gifts  and  labours  of 
Americans  were  not  lacking  to  that  good 
cause.  Edwin  Booth  was  one  of  the  earliest 
contributors  to  the  Memorial  Fund,  and  the 
names  of  Mr.  Herman  Vezin,  Mr.  M.  D. 
Conway,  Mr.  W.  H.  Reynolds,  Mrs.  Bate- 
man, and  Mrs.  Louise  Chandler  Moulton 
appear  in  the  first  list  of  its  subscribers. 
Miss  Kate  Field  worked  for  its  advance- 
ment with  remarkable  energy  and  practical 
success.  Miss  Mary  Anderson  acted  for  its 
benefit  on  August  29,  1885.  In  the  Church 
of  the  Holy  Trinity,  where  Shakespeare’s 
dust  is  buried,  a beautiful  stained  window, 
illustrative,  scripturally,  of  that  solemn 
epitome  of  human  life  which  the  poet 
gives  in  the  speech  of  Jacques  on  the  seven 
ages  of  man,  evinces  the  practical  devotion 
of  the  American  pilgrim ; and  many  a 
heart  has  been  thrilled  with  reverent  joy 
to  see  the  soft  light  that  streams  through 
its  pictured  panes  fall  gently  on  the  poet’s 
grave. 


THE  STRATFORD  FOUNTAIN.  1 83 

Wherever  in  Stratford  you  come  upon 
anything  that  was  ever  associated,  even  re- 
motely, with  the  name  and  fame  of  Shake- 
speare, there  you  will  find  the  gracious 
tokens  of  American*  homage.  The  libraries 
of  the  Birthplace  and  of  the  Memorial  alike 
contain  gifts  of  American  books.  New  Place 
and  Anne  Hathaway’s  Cottage  are  never 
omitted  from  the  American  traveller’s  round 
of  visitations  and  duty  of  practical  tribute. 
The  Falcon,  with  its  store  of  relics ; the 
romantic  Shakespeare  Inn,  with  its  ram- 
bling passages,  its  quaint  rooms  named  after 
Shakespeare’s  characters,  its  antique  bar 
parlour,  and  the  rich  collection  of  auto- 
graphs and  pictures  that  has  been  made 
by  Mrs.  Justins  ; the  Grammar  School  in 
which  no  doubt  the  poet,  “ with  shining 
morning  face  ” of  boyhood,  was  (face  a 
pupil ; John  Marshall’s  antiquarian  work- 
shop, from  which  so  many  of  the  best 
souvenirs  of  Stratford  have  proceeded — a 
warm  remembrance  of  his  own  quaintness, 
kindness,  and  originality  being  perhaps  the 
most  precious  of  them  ; the  Town- Hall, 
adorned  with  Gainsborough’s  eloquent  por- 
trait of  Garrick,  to  which  no  engraving 
does  justice ; the  Guild  Chapel ; the  Clop- 


184  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

ton  Bridge ; the  old  Lucy  Mill ; the  foot- 
path across  fields  and  roads  to  Shottery, 
bosomed  in  great  elms ; and  the  ancient 
house  of  many  gables,  four  miles  away,  at 
Wilmcote,  which  was  the  home  of  Mary 
Arden,  Shakespeare’s  mother, — each  and 
every  one  of  these  storied  places  receives  in 
turn  the  tribute  of  the  wandering  Ameri- 
can, and  each  repays  him  a hundredfold  in 
charming  suggestiveness  of  association,  in 
high  thought,  and  in  the  lasting  impulse 
of  sweet  and  soothing  poetic  reverie.  At 
the  Red  Horse  Inn,  where  Mr.  Colbourne 
maintains  the  traditions  of  old-fashioned 
English  hospitality,  he  finds  his  home  ; well 
pleased  to  muse  and  dream  in  Washington 
Irving’s  Parlour,  while  the  night  deepens 
and  the  clock  in  the  distant  tower  murmurs 
drowsily  in  its  sleep.  Those  who  will  may 
mock  at  his  enthusiasm.  He  would  not 
feel  it  but  for  the  spell  that  Shakespeare’s 
genius  has  cast  upon  the  world.  He  ought 
to  be  glad  and  grateful  that  he  can  feel  that 
spell ; and,  since  he  does  feel  it,  nothing 
could  be  more  natural  than  his  desire  to 
signify  that  he  too,  though  born  far  away 
from  the  old  home  of  his  race,  and  separated 
from  it  by  three  thousand  miles  of  stormy 
ocean,  has  still  his  part  in  the  divine  legacy 


THE  STRATFORD  FOUNTAIN.  1 85 

of  Shakespeare,  the  treasure  and  the  glory 
of  the  English  tongue. 

A noble  token  of  this  American  sentiment, 
and  a permanent  object  of  interest  to  the 
pilgrim  in  Stratford,  is  supplied  by  the 
Jubilee  gift  of  a drinking -fountain  made  to 
that  city  by  George  W.  Childs  of  Phila- 
delphia. It  never  is  a surprise  to  hear  of 
some  new  instance  of  that  good  man’s  con- 
stant activity  and  splendid  generosity  in 
good  works  ; it  is  only  an  accustomed  plea- 
sure. With  fine-art  testimonials  in  the  old 
world  as  well  as  at  home  his  name  will 
always  be  honourably  associated.  A few 
years  ago  he  presented  a superb  window 
of  stained  glass  to  Westminster  Abbey, 
to  commemorate,  in  Poets’  Corner,  George 
Herbert  and  William  Cowper.  He  has 
since  given  to  St.  Margaret’s  Church,  West- 
minster, where  John  Skelton  and  Sir  James 
Harrington  (1611-1677)  were  entombed,  and 
where  was  buried  the  headless  body  of 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  a pictorial  window 
commemorative  of  John  Milton.  His  foun- 
tain at  Stratford  was  dedicated  on  October 
17,  1887,  with  appropriate  ceremonies  con- 
ducted by  the  city’s  Mayor,  Sir  Arthur 
Hodgson  of  Clopton  Hall,  and  amid  general 
rejoicing.  Henry  Irving,  the  leader  of  the 


1 86  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

English  stage  and  the  most  illustrious  of 
English  actors  since  the  age  of  Garrick, 
delivered  an  address,  of  singular  felicity  and 
eloquence,  and  also  read  a poem  composed 
for  the  occasion  by  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 
The  countrymen  of  Mr.  Childs  are  not  less 
interested  in  this  structure  than  the  com- 
munity that  it  was  intended  to  honour  and 
benefit.  They  observe  with  satisfaction 
and  pride  that  he  has  made  this  beneficent, 
beautiful,  and  opulent  offering  to  a town 
which,  for  all  of  them,  is  hallowed  by  ex- 
alted associations,  and  for  many  of  them 
is  endeared  by  delightful  memories.  They 
sympathise  also  with  the  motive  and  feeling, 
that  prompted  him  to  offer  his  gift  as  one 
among  many  memorials  of  the  fiftieth  year 
of  the  reign  of  Queen  Victoria.  It  is  not 
every  man  who  knows  how  to  give  with 
grace,  and  the  good  deed  is  “ done  double  ” 
that  is  done  at  the  right  time.  Stratford 
had  long  been  in  need  of  such  a fountain  as 
Mr.  Childs  has  given,  and  therefore  it  satis- 
fies a public  want,  at  the  same  time  that  it 
serves  a purpose  of  ornamentation  and  be- 
speaks and  strengthens  a bond  of  inter- 
national sympathy.  Rother  Square,  in 
which  the  structure  stands,  is  the  most 
considerable  open  tract  in  Stratford,  and  is 


THE  STRATFORD  FOUNTAIN.  1 87 

situated  near  the  centre  of  the  town,  on  the 
west  side.  There,  as  also  at  the  intersection 
of  High  and  Bridge  streets,  which  are  the 
principal  thoroughfares  of  the  city,  the 
farmers,  at  stated  intervals,  range  their 
beasts  and  wagons  and  hold  a market.  It 
is  easy  to  foresee  that  Bother,  embellished 
with  this  monument,  which  combines  a con- 
venient clock-tower,  a place  of  rest  and  re- 
freshment for  man,  and  commodious  drink- 
ing-troughs for  horses,  cattle,  dogs,  and 
sheep,  will  soon  become  the  agricultural 
centre  of  the  region. 

The  base  of  the  monument  is  made  of 
Peterhead  granite ; the  superstructure  is  of 
gray  stone  from  Bolton,  in  Yorkshire.  The 
height  of  the  tower  is  fifty  feet.  On  the 
north  side  a stream  of  water  flowing  con- 
stantly from  a bronze  spout  falls  into  a 
polished  granite  basin.  On  the  south  side 
a door  opens  into  the  interior.  The  deco- 
rations include  sculptures  of  the  arms  of 
Great  Britain  alternated  with  the  eagle  and 
stripes  of  the  American  republic.  In  the 
second  story  of  the  tower,  lighted  by  glazed 
arches,  is  placed  a clock,  and  on  the  out- 
ward faces  of  the  third  story  appear  four 
dials.  There  are  four  turrets  surrounding 
a central  spire,  each  surmounted  with  a 


1 88 


gray  Days  ajnd  gold. 


gilded  vane.  The  inscriptions  on  the  base 
are  these  : — 

i. 

The  gift  of  an  American  citizen,  George  W.  Childs 
of  Philadelphia,  to  the  town  of  Shakespeare, 
in  the  Jubilee  year  of  Queen  Victoria. 


In  her  days  every  man  shall  eat,  in  safety 
Under  his  own  vine,  what  he  plants  ; and  sing 
The  merry  songs  of  peace  to  all  his  neighbours. 
God  shall  be  truly  known  : and  those  about  her 
From  her  shall  read  the  perfect  ways  of  honour. 
And  by  those  claim  their  greatness,  not  by  blood. 

Henry  VIII.,  Act  v.  Scene  4. 

hi. 

Honest  water,  which  ne’er  left  man  i’  the  mire. 

Timon  of  A thens , Act  i.  Scene  2. 


IV. 

Ten  thousand  honours  and  blessings  on  the 
bard  who  has  thus  gilded  the  dull  realities  of  life 
with  innocent  illusions.  — Washington  Irving's 
“ Stratford-on-Avon .’ 

Stratford-upon-Avon,  fortunate  in  many 
things,  is  especially  fortunate  in  being  situ- 
ated at  a considerable  distance  from  the 
main  line  of  any  railway.  Two  railroads 
indeed  skirt  the  town,  but  both  are 


THE  STRATFORD  FOUNTAIN.  1 89 

branches,  and  travel  upon  them  has  not 
yet  become  too  frequent.  Stratford,  there- 
fore, still  retains  a measure  of  its  ancient 
isolation,  and  consequently  a flavour  of 
quaintness.  Antique  customs  are  still  pre- 
valent there,  and  odd  characters  may  still 
be  encountered.  The  current  of  village 
gossip  flows  with  incessant  vigour,  and 
nothing  happens  in  the  place  that  is  not 
thoroughly  discussed  by  its  inhabitants.  An 
event  so  important  as  the  establishment  of 
the  American  Fountain  would  excite  great 
interest  throughout  Warwickshire.  It  would 
be  pleasant  to  hear  the  talk  of  those  old 
cronies  who  drift  into  the  bar-parlour  of  the 
Red  Horse  on  a Saturday  evening,  as  they 
comment  on  the  liberal  American  who  has 
thus  enriched  and  beautified  their  town. 
The  Red  Horse  circle  is  but  one  of  many 
in  which  the  name  of  George  W.  Childs  is 
spoken  with  esteem  and  cherished  with  affec- 
tion. The  present  writer  has  made  many 
visits  to  Stratford,  and  has  passed  much  time 
there,  and  he  has  observed  on  many  occa- 
sions the  admiration  and  gratitude  of  the 
Warwickshire  people  for  the  American  phil- 
anthropist. In  the  library  of  Charles  Ed- 
ward Flower,  at  Avonbank  ; in  the  opulent 
gardens  of  Edgar  Flower,  on  the  Hill ; in  the 


190  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

lovely  home  of  Alderman  Bird  ; at  the  hos- 
pitable table  of  Sir  Arthur  Hodgson,  in 
Clopton  Hall ; and  in  many  other  represen- 
tative places,  he  has  heard  that  name  spoken, 
and  always  with  delight  and  honour.  Time 
will  only  deepen  and  widen  the  loving  respect 
with  which  it  is  hallowed.  In  England  more 
than  anywhere  else  on  earth  the  record  of 
good  deeds  is  made  permanent,  not  alone 
with  imperishable  symbols,  but  in  the  hearts 
of  the  people.  The  inhabitants  of  Warwick- 
shire, guarding  and  maintaining  their  Strat- 
ford Fountain,  will  not  forget  by  whom 
it  was  given.  Wherever  you  go,  in  the 
British  Islands,  you  find  memorials  of  the 
past  and  of  individuals  who  have  done  good 
deeds  in  their  time,  and  you  also  find  that 
those  memorials  are  respected  and  preserved. 
Warwickshire  abounds  with  them.  Many 
such  emblems  might  be  indicated.  Each 
one  of  them  takes  its  place  in  the  regard 
and  gradually  becomes  entwined  with  the 
experience  of  the  whole  community.  So  it 
will  be  with  the  Childs  Fountain  at  Strat- 
ford. The  children  trooping  home  from 
school  will  drink  of  it  and  sport  in  its 
shadow,  and,  reading  upon  its  base  the  name 
of  its  founder,  will  think  with  pleasure  of 
a good  man’s  gift.  It  stands  in  the  track 


THE  STRATFORD  FOUNTAIN.  191 

of  travel  between  Banbury,  Shipton,  Strat- 
ford, and  Birmingham,  and  many  weary  men 
and  horses  will  pause  beside  it  every  day, 
for  a moment  of  refreshment  and  rest. 
On  festival  days  it  will  be  hung  with  gar- 
lands, while  all  around  it  the  air  is  glad 
with  music.  And  often  in  the  long,  sweet 
gloaming  of  the  summer  times  to  come  the 
rower  on  the  limpid  Avon,  that  murmurs  by 
the  ancient  town  of  Shakespeare,  will  pause 
with  suspended  oar  to  hear  its  silver  chimes. 
If  the  founder  of  this  fountain  had  been 
capable  of  a selfish  thought  he  could  have 
taken  no  way  better  or  more  certain  than 
this  for  the  perpetuation  of  his  name  in  the 
affectionate  esteem  of  one  of  the  loveliest 
places  and  one  of  the  most  sedate  com- 
munities in  the  world. 

Autumn  in  England — and  all  the  country 
ways  of  lovely  Warwickshire  are  strewn 
with  fallen  leaves.  But  the  cool  winds  are 
sweet  and  bracing,  the  dark  waters  of  the 
Avon,  shimmering  in  mellow  sunlight  and 
frequent  shadow,  flow  softly  past  the  hal- 
lowed church,  and  the  reaped  and  gleaned 
and  empty  meadows  invite  to  many  a 
healthful  ramble  far  and  wide  over  the 
country  of  Shakespeare.  It  is  a good  time 
to  be  there.  Now  will  the  robust  pedestrian 


192 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


make  his  jaunt  to  Charlecote  Park  and 
Hampton  Lucy,  to  Stoneleigh  Abbey,  to 
Warwick  and  Kenilworth,  to  Guy’s  Cliff, 
with  its  weird  avenue  of  semi-blasted  trees, 
to  the  Blacklow  Hill — where  sometimes  at 
still  midnight  the  shuddering  peasant  hears 
the  ghostly  funeral  bell  of  Sir  Piers  Gave- 
ston  sounding  ruefully  from  out  the  black 
and  gloomy  woods — and  to  many  another 
historic  haunt  and  high  poetic  shrine.  All 
the  country-side  is  full  of  storied  resorts 
and  cosy  nooks  and  comfortable  inns.  But 
neither  now  nor  hereafter  will  it  be  other- 
wise than  grateful  and  touching  to  such  an 
explorer  of  haunted  Warwickshire  to  see, 
among  the  emblems  of  poetry  and  romance 
which  are  its  chief  glory,  this  new  token 
of  American  sentiment  and  friendship,  the 
Fountain  of  Stratford. 


XIV. 


BOSWORTH  FIELD. 


ARWICK,  August  29,  1889. — It  has 


long  been  the  conviction  of  the  pre- 
sent writer  that  the  character  of  Richard 
hi.  has  been  distorted  and  maligned  by 
the  old  historians  from  whose  authority 
the  accepted  view  of  it  is  derived.  He 
was,  it  is  certain,  a superb  soldier,  a wise 
statesman,  a judicious  legislator,  a natural 
ruler  of  men,  and  a prince  most  accom- 
plished in  music  and  the  fine  arts  and  in 
the  graces  of  social  life.  Some  of  the  best 
laws  that  ever  were  enacted  in  England 
were  enacted  during  his  reign.  His  title  to 
the  throne  of  England  was  absolutely  clear, 
as  against  the  Earl  of  Richmond,  and  but 
for  the  treachery  of  some  among  his  fol- 
lowers he  would  have  prevailed  in  the  con 
test  upon  Bosworth  Field,  and  would  have 
vindicated  and  maintained  that  title  over 
all  opposition.  He  lost  the  battle,  and  he 
was  too  great  a man  to  survive  the  ruin  of 


N 


194  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

his  fortunes.  He  threw  away  his  life  in 
the  last  mad  charge  upon  Richmond  that 
day,  and  when  once  the  grave  had  closed 
over  him,  and  his  usurping  cousin  had 
seized  the  English  crown,  it  naturally  must 
have  become  the  easy  as  well  as  the  politic 
business  of  history  to  blacken  his  char- 
acter. England  was  never  ruled  by  a more 
severe  monarch  than  the  austere,  crafty, 
avaricious  Henry  vil,  and  it  is  certain 
that  no  word  in  praise  of  his  predecessor 
could  have  been  publicly  said  in  England 
during  Henry’s  reign : neither  would  it 
have  been  safe  for  anybody  to  speak  for 
Richard  and  the  House  of  York  in  the  time 
of  Henry  vm.,  the  cruel  Mary,  or  the  illus- 
trious Elizabeth.  The  drift,  in  fact,  was 
all  the  other  way.  The  Life  of  Richard 
hi.  by  Sir  Thomas  More  is  the  fountain- 
head of  the  other  narratives  of  his  career, 
and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  More, 
who  as  a youth  had  lived  at  Canterbury,  in 
the  palace  of  Archbishop  Morton,  derived 
his  views  of  Richard  from  that  prelate. 
“Morton  is  fled  to  Richmond.”  He  was 
Bishop  of  Ely  when  he  deserted  the  King, 
and  Henry  vn.  rewarded  him  by  mak- 
ing him  Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  No 
man  of  the  time  was  so  little  likely  as 


BOSWORTH  FIELD. 


195 


Morton  to  take  an  unprejudiced  view  of 
Richard  ill.  It  is  the  Morton  view  that 
has  become  history.  The  world  still  looks 
at  Richard  through  the  eyes  of  his  victo- 
rious foe.  Moreover,  the  Morton  view 
has  been  stamped  indelibly  upon  the  imagi- 
nation and  the  credulity  of  mankind  by 
the  overwhelming  and  irresistible  genius 
of  Shakespeare  — who  wrote  “Richard 
m.”  in  the  reign  of  the  granddaughter 
of  Henry  vn.,  and  who,  aside  from  the 
question  of  discretion,  saw  dramatic  pos- 
sibilities in  the  man  of  dark  passions  and 
deeds  that  he  could  not  have  seen  in  a 
more  human  and  a more  virtuous  mon- 
arch. Goodness  is  generally  monotonous. 
“ The  low  sun  makes  the  colour.  ” It  is 
not  to  be  supposed  that  King  Richard 
was  a model  man ; but  there  are  good 
reasons  for  thinking  that  he  was  not  so 
black  as  his  enemies  painted  him ; and, 
good  or  bad,  he  is  one  of  the  most  fascinat- 
ing personalities  that  history  and  literature 
have  made  immortal.  It  was  with  no  com- 
mon emotion,  therefore,  that  I stood  upon 
the  summit  of  Ambien  Hill  and  looked 
downward  over  the  plain  where  Richard 
fought  his  last  fight  and  went  gloriously  to 
his  death. 


196  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

The  battle  of  Bosworth  Field  was  fought 
on  August  22,  1485.  More  than  four  hun- 
dred years  have  passed  since  then : yet 
except  for  the  incursions  of  a canal  and  a 
railway  the  aspect  of  that  plain  is  but  little 
changed  from  what  it  was  when  Richard 
surveyed  it  on  that  gray  and  sombre  morn- 
ing when  he  beheld  the  forces  of  Richmond 
advancing  past  the  marsh  and  knew  that 
the  crisis  of  his  life  had  come.  The  Earl 
was  pressing  forward  that  day  from  Tam- 
worth  and  Atherstone,  which  are  in  the 
northern  part  of  Warwickshire — the  latter 
being  close  upon  the  Leicestershire  border. 
His  course  was  a little  to  the  south-east,  and 
King  Richard’s  forces,  facing  north-westerly, 
confronted  their  enemies  from  the  summit 
of  a long  and  gently  sloping  hill  that  extends 
for  several  miles,  about  east  and  west,  from 
Market  Bosworth  on  the  right,  to  the 
vicinity  of  Dadlington  on  the  left.  The 
King’s  position  had  been  chosen  with  an 
excellent  judgment  that  has  more  than 
once,  in  modern  times,  elicited  the  admira- 
tion of  accomplished  soldiers.  His  right 
wing,  commanded  by  Lord  Stanley,  rested 
on  Bosworth.  His  left  was  protected  by  a 
marsh,  impassable  to  the  foe.  Sir  William 
Stanley  commanded  the  left  and  had  his 


BOSWORTH  FIELD. 


197 


headquarters  in  Dadlington.  Richard  rode 
in  the  centre.  Far  to  the  right  he  saw  the 
clustered  houses  and  the  graceful  spire  of 
Bosworth,  and  far  to  the  left  his  glance 
rested  on  the  little  church  of  Dadlington. 
Below  and  in  front  of  him  all  was  open 
field,  and  all  across  that  field  waved  the 
banners  and  sounded  the  trumpets  of  rebel- 
lion and  defiance.  It  is  easy  to  imagine 
the  glowing  emotions — the  implacable  re- 
sentment, the  passionate  fury,  and  the 
deadly  purpose  of  slaughter  and  vengeance 
— with  which  the  imperious  and  terrible 
monarch  gazed  on  his  approaching  foes. 
They  show,  in  a meadow,  a little  way  over 
the  crest  of  the  hill,  where  it  is  marked  and 
partly  covered  now  by  a pyramidal  struc- 
ture of  gray  stones,  suitably  inscribed  with 
a few  commemorative  lines  in  Latin,  a 
spring  of  water  at  which  Richard  paused 
to  quench  his  thirst  before  he  made  that 
last  desperate  charge  on  Radmore  Heath, 
when  at  length  he  knew  himself  betrayed 
and  abandoned,  and  felt  that  his  only  hope 
lay  in  killing  the  Earl  of  Richmond  with 
his  own  hand.  The  fight  at  Bosworth  was 
not  a long  one.  Both  the  Stanleys  deserted 
the  King’s  standard  early  in  the  day.  It 
was  easy  for  them,  posted  as  they  were,  to 


198  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

wheel  their  forces  into  the  rear  of  the  rebel 
army  at  the  right  and  the  left.  Nothing 
then  remained  for  Richard  but  to  rush 
down  upon  the  centre,  where  he  saw  the 
banner  of  Richmond — borne  at  that  moment 
by  Sir  William  Brandon — and  to  crush  the 
treason  at  its  head.  It  must  have  been  a 
charge  of  tremendous  impetuosity.  It  bore 
the  fiery  king  a long  way  forward  on  the 
level  plain.  He  struck  down  Brandon  with 
his  own  hand.  He  plainly  saw  the  Earl  of 
Richmond,  and  came  almost  near  enough 
to  encounter  him,  when  a score  of  swords 
were  buried  in  his  body,  and,  hacked  almost 
into  pieces,  he  fell  beneath  heaps  of  the 
slain.  The  place  of  his  death  is  now  the 
junction  of  three  country  roads,  one  leading 
north-west  to  Shenton,  one  south-west  to 
Dadlington,  and  one  bearing  away  easterly 
toward  Bosworth.  A little  brook,  called 
Sandy  Ford,  flows  underneath  the  road,  and 
there  is  a considerable  coppice  in  the  field 
at  the  junction.  Upon  the  peaceful  sign- 
board appear  the  names  of  Dadlington  and 
Hinckley.  Not  more  than  five  hundred 
feet  distant  to  the  eastward  rises  the  em- 
bankment of  a branch  of  the  Midland  Rail- 
way, from  Nuneaton  to  Leicester ; while 
at  about  the  same  distance  to  the  westward 


BOSWORTH  FIELD. 


199 


rises  the  similar  embankment  of  a canal. 
No  monument  has  been  erected  to  mark 
the  spot  where  Richard  in.  was  slain. 
They  took  up  his  mangled  body,  threw  it 
across  a horse,  and  carried  it  into  the  town 
of  Leicester,  and  there  it  was  buried,  in 
the  Church  of  the  Gray  Friars — also  the 
sepulchre  of  Cardinal  Wolsey — now  a ruin. 
The  only  commemorative  mark  upon  the 
battlefield  is  the  pyramid  at  the  well,  and 
that  stands  at  a long  distance  from  the  place 
of  the  King’s  fall.  I tried  to  picture  the 
scene  of  his  final  charge  and  his  frightful 
death  as  I stood  there  upon  the  hillside. 
Many  little  slate-coloured  clouds  wTere  drift- 
ing across  a pale  blue  sky.  A cool  summer 
breeze  was  sighing  in  the  branches  of  the 
neighbouring  trees.  The  bright  green  sod 
was  all  alive  with  the  sparkling  yellow  of 
the  colt’s-foot  and  the  soft  red  of  the  clover. 
Birds  were  whistling  from  the  coppice  near 
by,  and  overhead  the  air  was  flecked  with 
innumerable  black  pinions  of  fugitive  rooks 
and  starlings.  It  did  not  seem  possible 
that  a sound  of  war  or  a deed  of  violence 
could  ever  have  intruded  to  break  the 
Sabbath  stillness  of  that  scene  of  peace. 

The  water  of  King  Richard’s  Well  is  a 
shallow  pool,  choked  now  with  moss  and 


200 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


weeds.  The  inscription,  which  was  written 
by  Dr.  Samuel  Parr,  reads  as  follows  : — 

AQVA.  EX.  HOC.  PYTEO.  HAVSTA 
SITIM.  SEDAVIT 

RICHARDVS.  TERTIVS.  REX.  ANGLIAE 
CVM  HENRICO.  COMITE  DE  RICHMONDIA 
ACERRIME.  ATQVE.  INGENTISSIME.  PRAELIANS 
ET.  VITA.  PARITER.  AC.  SCEPTRO 
ANTE  NOCTEM.  CARITVRUS 
II  KAL.  SEP.  A.  D.  M.C.C.C.C.LXXXY. 

There  are  five  churches  in  the  immediate 
neighbourhood  of  Bosworth  Field,  all  of 
which  were  in  one  way  or  another  associ- 
ated with  that  memorable  battle.  Ratcliffe 
Culey  Church  has  a low  square  tower  and  a 
short  stone  spire,  and  there  is  herbage 
growing  upon  its  tower  and  its  roof.  It 
is  a building  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
one  mark  of  this  period  being  its  perpen- 
dicular stone  font,  an  octagon  in  shape,  and 
much  frayed  by  time.  In  three  arches 
of  its  chancel,  on  the  south  side,  the  sculp- 
ture shows  tri-foliated  forms  of  exceptional 
beauty.  In  the  east  window  there  are 
fragments  of  old  glass,  rich  in  colour  and 
quaint  and  singular.  The  churchyard  is 
full  of  odd  gravestones,  various  in  shape 
and  irregular  in  position.  An  ugly  slate- 


BOSWORTH  FIELD. 


201 


stone  is  much  used  in  Leicestershire  for 
monuments  to  the  dead.  Most  of  these 
stones  record  modern  burials,  the  older 
graves  being  unmarked.  The  grass  grows 
thick  and  dense  all  over  the  churchyard. 
Upon  the  church  walls  are  several  fine 
specimens  of  those  mysterious  ray  and 
circle  marks  which  have  long  been  a puzzle 
to  the  archseological  explorer.  Such  marks 
are  usually  found  in  the  last  bay  but  one, 
on  the  south  side  of  the  nave,  toward  the 
west  end  of  the  church.  On  Ratcliffe  Culey 
Church  they  consist  of  central  points  with 
radial  lines,  like  a star,  but  these  are  not 
enclosed,  as  often  happens,  with  circle  lines. 
Various  theories  have  been  advanced  by 
antiquarians  to  account  for  these  designs. 
Probably  these  marks  were  cut  upon  the 
churches,  by  the  pious  monks  of  old,  as 
emblems  of  eternity  and  of  the  Sun  of 
Righteousness. 

Shenton  Hall  (1629),  long  and  still  the 
seat  of  the  Woollastons,  stood  directly  in 
the  path  of  the  combatants  at  Bosworth 
Field,  and  the  fury  of  the  battle  must  have 
raged  all  around  it.  The  Hall  has  been  re* 
cased,  and,  except  for  its  old  gatehouse  and 
semi-octagon  bays,  which  are  of  the  Tudor 
style,  it  presents  a modern  aspect.  Its 


202 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


windows  open  toward  Radmore  Plain  and 
Ambien  Hill,  the  scene  of  the  conflict 
between  the  Red  Rose  and  the  White.  The 
church  has  been  entirely  rebuilt — a hand- 
some edifice  of  crucial  form,  containing 
costly  pews  of  old  oak,  together  with 
interesting  brasses  and  busts  taken  from  the 
old  church  which  it  has  replaced.  The 
brasses  commemorate  Richard  Coate  and 
Joyce  his  wife,  and  Richard  Everard  and 
his  wife,  and  are  dated  1556,  1597,  and  1616. 
The  busts  are  of  white  marble,  dated  1666, 
and  are  commemorative  of  William  Wool* 
laston  and  his  wife,  once  lord  and  lady  of 
the  manor  of  Shenton.  It  was  the  rule,  in 
building  churches,  that  one  end  should  face 
to  the  east  and  the  other  to  the  west,  but 
you  frequently  find  an  old  church  that  is 
set  at  a slightly  different  angle — that, 
namely,  at  which  the  sun  arose  on  the 
birthday  of  the  saint  to  whom  the  church 
was  dedicated. 

Dadlington  was  Richard’s  extreme  left  on 
the  day  of  the  battle  and  Bosworth  was  his 
extreme  right.  These  positions  were  in- 
trusted to  the  Stanleys,  both  of  whom  be- 
trayed their  King.  Sir  William  Stanley’s 
headquarters  were  at  Dadlington,  and  traces 
of  the  earthworks  then  thrown  up  there, 


BOSWORTH  FIELD. 


203 


by  Richard’s  command,  are  still  visible. 
Dadlington  Church  has  almost  crumbled  to 
pieces,  and  is  to  be  restored.  It  is  a little 
low  structure,  with  a wooden  tower, 
stuccoed  walls  and  a tiled  roof,  and  it 
stands  in  a graveyard  full  of  scattered 
mounds  and  slate-stone  monuments.  It 
was  built  in  Norman  times,  and  although 
still  used  it  has  long  been  little  better  than 
a ruin.  One  of  the  bells  in  its  tower  is 
marked  “Thomas  Arnold  fecit,  1763” — but 
this  is  comparatively  a modern  touch.  The 
church  contains  two  pointed  arches,  and 
across  its  roof  are  five  massive  oak  beams 
almost  black  with  age.  The  plaster  ceiling 
has  fallen,  in  several  places,  so  that  patches 
of  laths  are  visible  in  the  roof.  The  pews 
are  square,  box-like  structures,  made  of  oak, 
and  very  old.  The  altar  is  a plain  oak 
table,  supported  on  carved  legs,  covered 
with  a cloth.  On  the  west  wall  appears  a 
tablet  inscribed  “ Thomas  Eames,  church- 
warden, 1773.”  Many  human  skeletons, 
arranged  in  regular  tiers,  were  found  in 
Dadlington  churchyard,  when  a much-be- 
loved clergyman,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bourne,  was 
buried,  in  1881  ; and  it  is  believed  that 
those  are  remains  of  men  who  fell  at  Bos- 
worth  Field.  The  only  inn  at  this  lonely 


204  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

place  bears  the  quaint  name  of  “ The  Dog 
and  Hedgehog.” 

The  following  queer  epitaph  appears  upon 
a gravestone  in  Dadlington  churchyard.  It 
is  Thomas  Bolland,  1765,  who  thus  expresses 
his  mind,  in  mortuary  reminiscence 

“l  lov’d  my  Honour’d  Parents  dear, 

I lov’d  my  Wife’s  and  Children  dear, 

And  hope  in  Heaven  to  meet  them  there. 

I lov’d  my  Brothers  & Sisters  too, 

And  hope  I shall  them  in  Heaven  view. 

I lov’d  my  Vncle’s,  Aunt’s,  & Cousin’s  too 
And  I pray  God  to  give  my  children  grace 
the  same  to  do.” 

Stoke  Golding  church  was  built  in  the 
fourteenth  century.  It  stands  now,  a gray 
and  melancholy  relic  of  other  days,  strange 
and  forlorn,  yet  august  and  stately,  in  a 
little  brick  village,  the  streets  of  which 
are  paved,  like  those  of  a city,  with  blocks 
of  stone.  It  is  regarded  as  one  of  the  best 
specimens  extant  of  the  decorated  style  of 
early  English  ecclesiastical  architecture. 
It  has  a fine  tower  and  spire,  and  it  consists 
of  nave,  chantry,  and  south  aisle.  There  is 
a perforated  parapet  on  one  side,  but  not  on 
the  other.  The  walls  of  the  nave  and  the 
chancel  are  continuous.  The  pinnacles, 
though  decayed,  show  that  they  must  have 


BOS  WORTH  FIELD. 


2C5 


been  beautifully  carved.  One  of  the  deco- 
rative pieces  upon  one  of  them  is  a rabbit 
with  his  ears  laid  back.  Lichen  and  grass 
are  growing  on  the  tower  and  on  the  walls. 
The  roof  is  of  oak,  the  mouldings  of  the 
arches  are  exceptionally  graceful,  and  the 
capitals  of  the  five  main  columns  present,  in 
marked  diversity,  carvings  of  faces,  flowers, 
and  leaves.  The  tomb  of  the  founder  is  on 
the  north  side,  and  the  stone  pavement  is 
everywhere  lettered  with  inscriptions  of 
burial.  There  is  a fine  mural  brass,  bearing 
the  name  of  Brokesley,  1633,  and  a superb 
“ stocke  chest,”  1636  ; and  there  is  a 
sculptured  font,  of  exquisite  symmetry. 
Some  of  the  carving  upon  the  oak  roof  is 
more  grotesque  than  decorative — but  this  is 
true  of  most  other  carving  to  be  found  in 
ancient  churches ; such,  for  example,  as 
you  may  see  under  the  miserere  seats  in 
the  chancel  of  the  Holy  Trinity  at  Strat- 
ford-upon-Avon. There  was  formerly  some 
beautiful  old  stained  glass  in  the  east  win- 
dow of  Stoke  Golding  Church,  but  this  has 
disappeared.  A picturesque  stone  slab,  set 
upon  the  church  wall  outside,  arrests  at- 
tention by  its  pleasing  shape,  its  venerable 
aspect,  and  its  decayed  lettering ; the  date 
is  1684.  Many  persons  slain  at  Bos  worth 


206 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


Field  were  buried  in  Stoke  Golding  church- 
yard, and  over  their  nameless  graves  the 
long  grass  is  waving  in  indolent  luxuriance 
and  golden  light.  So  Nature  hides  waste 
and  forgets  pain.  Near  to  this  village  is 
Crown  Hill,  where  the  crown  of  England 
was  taken  from  a hawthorn  bush,  whereon 
it  had  been  cast  in  the  frenzied  confusion  of 
defeat,  after  the  battle  of  Bosworth  was 
over  and  the  star  of  King  Richard  had  been 
quenched  in  death.  Crown  Hill  is  a green 
meadow  now,  witkoutdistinguishing  feature, 
except  that  two  large  trees,  each  having  a 
double  trunk,  are  growing  in  the  middle  of 
it.  Not  distant  from  this  historic  spot 
stands  Higham-on-the-Hill,  where  there  is 
a fine  church,  remarkable  for  its  Norman 
tower.  From  this  village  the  view  is 
magnificent — embracing  all  that  section  of 
Leicestershire  which  is  thus  haunted  with 
memories  of  King  Richard  and  of  the 
carnage  that  marked  the  final  conflict  of 
the  white  and  red  roses. 


XV. 


THE  HOME  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 

LICHFIELD,  Staffordshire,  July  31, 
1890. — To  a man  of  letters  there  is  no 
name  in  the  long  annals  of  English  litera- 
ture more  interesting  and  significant  than 
the  name  of  Samuel  Johnson.  It  has  been 
truly  said  that  no  other  man  was  ever  sub- 
jected to  such  a light  as  Boswell  threw 
upon  Johnson,  and  that  few  other  men 
could  have  endured  it  so  well.  He  was 
many  things  that  are  noble,  but  for  all 
men  of  letters  he  is  especially  noble  as  the 
champion  of  literature.  He  vindicated  the 
profession  of  letters.  He  lived  by  his  pen, 
and  he  taught  the  great  world,  once  for 
all,  that  it  is  honourable  so  to  live.  That 
lesson  was  needed  in  the  England  of  his 
period  ; and  from  that  period  onward  the 
literary  vocation  has  steadily  been  held  in 
higher  esteem  than  it  enjoyed  up  to  that 
time.  You  will  not  be  surprised  that  one 
of  the  humblest  of  his  followers  should 

207 


208 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


linger  for  a while  in  the  ancient  town 
that  is  glorified  by  association  with  his 
illustrious  name,  or  should  wish  to  send  a 
word  of  fealty  and  homage  from  the  birth- 
place of  Dr.  Johnson. 

Lichfield  is  a cluster  of  rather  dingy 
streets  and  of  red-brick  and  stucco  build- 
ings, lying  in  a vale  a little  northward 
from  Birmingham,  diversified  by  a couple 
of  artificial  lakes,  and  glorified  by  one  of 
the  loveliest  churches  in  Europe.  Without 
its  church  the  town  would  be  nothing ; 
with  its  church  it  is  everything.  Lichfield 
Cathedral,  although  an  ancient  structure — 
dating  back,  indeed,  to  the  early  part  of 
the  twelfth  century — has  been  so  sorely 
battered  first  and  last,  and  so  considerably 
“restored,”  that  it  presents  the  aspect 
of  a building  almost  modern.  The  denote- 
ments of  antiquity,  however,  are  not  en- 
tirely absent  from  it,  and  altogether  it  is 
not  less  venerable  than  majestic.  No  one 
of  the  cathedrals  of  England  presents  a 
more  beautiful  facade.  The  multitudinous 
statues  of  saints  and  kings  that  are  upon  it 
create  an  impression  of  royal  opulence.  The 
carving  upon  the  recesses  of  the  great  door- 
ways on  the  north  and  west  is  of  astonish- 


THE  HOME  OF  DR.  JOHNSON.  2Cg 

in g variety  and  loveliness.  The  massive 
doors  of  dark  oak,  fretted  with  ironwork  of 
rare  delicacy,  are  impressive,  and  altogether 
are  suitable  for  such  an  edifice.  Seven  of 
the  large  gothic  windows  in  the  chancel  are 
filled  with  genuine  old  glass — not,  indeed, 
the  glass  that  they  originally  contained, 
for  that  was  smashed  by  the  Puritan 
fanatics  and  ruffians,  but  a great  quantity 
(no  less  than  at  least  340  pieces,  each  about 
twenty-two  inches  square)  made  in  Ger- 
many in  the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth 
century  when  the  art  of  staining  glass  was 
at  its  summit  of  skill.  This  treasure  was 
given  to  the  Cathedral  by  a liberal  friend, 
Sir  Brooke  Boothby,  who  had  obtained  it 
by  purchase,  in  1802,  from  the  dissolved 
Abbey  of  Herckenrode.  No  such  colour  as 
that  old  glass  presents  can  be  seen  in  the 
glass  that  is  manufactured  now.  It  is  imi- 
tated indeed,  but  it  does  not  last.  The  sub- 
jects portrayed  in  those  sumptuous  windows 
are  mostly  scriptural,  but  the  centre  window^ 
on  the  north  side  of  the  chancel  is  devoted 
to  portraits  of  noblemen,  one  of  them  being 
Errard  de  la  Marck,  who  was  enthroned 
Bishop  of  Li&ge  in  1505,  and  who,  toward 
the  end  of  his  stormy  life,  adopted  the  old 
o 


210 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


Roman  motto — comprehensive  and  final — 
which,  a little  garbled,  appears  in  the  glass 
beneath  his  heraldic  arms  : — 

Decipimus  votis  ; et  tempore  fallimur  ; 

Et  Mors  deridet  curas ; anxia  vita  nihil. 

The  father  of  the  illustrious  Joseph 
Addison  was  Dean  of  this  Cathedral  from 
1688  to  1703,  and  his  remains  are  buried 
in  the  ground,  near  the  west  door.  The 
stately  Latin  epitaph  was  written  by  his 
son.  This  and  several  other  epitaphs  here 
attract  the  interested  attention  of  literary 
students.  A tablet  on  the  north  wall,  in 
the  porch,  commemorates  the  courage  and 
sagacity  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu, 
who  introduced  into  England  the  practice 
of  inoculation  for  the  smallpox.  Anna 
Seward,  the  poet,  who  died  in  1809,  aged 
sixty-six,  and  who  was  one  of  the  friends 
of  Dr.  Johnson,  was  buried  and  is  comme- 
morated here,  and  the  fact  that  she  placed 
a tablet  here  in  memory  of  her  father  is 
celebrated  in  sixteen  eloquent  and  felicitous 
lines  by  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  father  was 
a canon  of  Lichfield,  and  died  in  1790.  The 
reader  of  Boswell  will  not  fail  to  remark 
the  epitaph  on  Gilbert  Walmesley,  once 
registrar  of  the  ecclesiastical  court  of  Lich- 


THE  HOME  OF  DR.  JOHNSON.  211 

field,  and  one  of  Dr.  Johnson’s  especial 
friends.  Of  Chappel  Woodhouse  it  is  sig- 
nificantly said,  upon  his  memorial  stone, 
that  he  was  “ lamented  most  by  those  who 
knew  him  best.”  Here  one  sees  two  of  the 
best  works  of  Chan  trey — one  called  “The 
Sleeping  Children,”  erected  in  1817,  in  me- 
mory of  the  two  young  daughters  of  the 
Rev.  William  Robinson  ; the  other  a kneel- 
ing figure  of  Bishop  Ryder,  who  died  in 
1836.  The  former  was  one  of  the  earliest 
triumphs  of  Chantrey — an  exquisite  sem- 
blance of  sleeping  innocence  and  heavenly 
purity — and  the  latter  was  his  last.  Near 
by  is  placed  one  of  the  most  sumptuous  monu- 
ments in  England,  a recumbent  statue,  done 
by  the  master-hand  of  Watts,  the  painter, 
presenting  Bishop  Lonsdale,  who  died  in 
1867.  This  figure,  in  which  the  modelling 
is  very  beautiful  and  expressive,  rests  upon 
a bed  of  marble  and  alabaster.  In  Chan- 
trey’s  statue  of  Bishop  Ryder,  which  seems 
no  effigy  but  indeed  the  living  man,  there 
is  marvellous  perfection  of  drapery  — the 
marble  having  the  effect  of  flowing  silk. 
Here  also,  in  the  south  transept,  is  the  urn 
of  the  Gastrells,  formerly  of  Stratford-on- 
Avon,  to  whom  was  due  the  destruction 
(1757)  of  the  house  of  New  Place  in  which 


212 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


Shakespeare  died.  No  mention  occurs  in 
the  epitaph  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Gastrell  him- 
self, but  copious  eulogium  is  lavished  on  his 
widow,  both  in  verse  and  prose,  who  must 
indeed  have  been  a good  woman  if  the  line 
is  true  which  describes  her  as  “A  friend  to 
want  when  each  false  friend  withdrew.” 
Her  chief  title  to  remembrance,  however, 
like  that  of  her  husband,  is  an  unhallowed 
association  with  one  of  the  most  sacred  of 
literary  shrines.  In  1776  Johnson,  accom- 
panied by  Boswell,  visited  Lichfield,  and 
Boswell  records  that  they  dined  with  Mrs. 
Gastrell  and  her  sister  Mrs.  Aston.  The 
Rev.  Mr.  Gastrell  was  then  dead.  “ I was 
not  informed  till  afterward,”  says  Boswell, 
“that  Mrs.  Gastrell’s  husband  was  the 
clergyman  who,  while  he  lived  at  Stratford- 
upon-Avon,  with  Gothic  barbarity  cut  down 
Shakespeare’s  mulberry-tree,  and  as  Dr. 
Johnson  told  me,  did  it  to  vex  his  neigh- 
bours. His  lady,  I have  reason  to  believe, 
on  the  same  authority,  participated  in  the 
guilt  of  what  the  enthusiasts  of  our  immor- 
tal bard  deem  almost  a species  of  sacrilege.” 
The  destruction  of  the  house  followed  close 
upon  that  of  the  tree,  and  to  both  their 
deaths  the  lady  was  doubtless  accessary. 

Upon  the  ledge  of  a casement  on  the  east 


THE  HOME  OF  DR.  JOHNSON.  21 3 

side  of  the  chancel,  separated  by  the  central 
lancet  of  a threefold  window,  stand  the 
marble  busts  of  Samuel  Johnson  and  David 
Garrick.  Side  by  side  they  went  through 
life  ; side  by  side  their  ashes  repose  in  the 
great  abbey  at  Westminster ; and  side  by 
side  they  are  commemorated  here.  Both 
the  busts  were  made  by  Westmacott,  and 
obviously  each  is  a portrait.  The  head  of 
Johnson  appears  without  his  customary  wig. 
The  colossal  individuality  of  the  man  plainly 
declares  itself  in  form  and  pose,  in  every 
line  of  the  eloquent  face  and  in  the  superb 
dignity  of  the  figure  and  the  action.  This 
work  was  based  on  a cast  taken  after  death, 
and  this  undoubtedly  is  Johnson’s  self.  The 
head  is  massive,  yet  graceful,  denoting  a 
compact  brain  and  great  natural  refinement 
of  intellect.  The  brow  is  indicative  of  un- 
common sweetness.  The  eyes  are  finely 
shaped.  The  nose  is  prominent,  long,  and 
slightly  aquiline,  with  wide  and  sensitive 
nostrils.  The  mouth  is  large,  and  the  lips 
are  slightly  parted,  as  if  in  speech.  Pro- 
digious perceptive  faculties  are  shown  in 
the  sculpture  of  the  forehead — a feature 
that  is  characteristic,  in  even  a greater 
degree,  of  the  bust  of  Garrick.  The  total 
expression  of  the  countenance  is  benignant, 


214 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


yet  troubled  and  rueful.  It  is  a thought- 
ful and  venerable  face,  and  yet  it  is  the 
passionate  face  of  a man  who  has  passed 
through  many  storms  of  self- conflict  and 
been  much  ravaged  by  spiritual  pain.  The 
face  of  Garrick,  on  the  contrary,  is  eager, 
animated,  triumphant,  happy,  showing  a 
nature  of  absolute  simplicity,  a sanguine 
temperament,  and  a mind  that  tempests 
may  have  ruffled  but  never  convulsed. 
Garrick  kept  his  “ storm  and  stress  ” for 
his  tragic  performances  ; there  was  no  par- 
ticle of  it  in  his  personal  experience.  It 
was  good  to  see  these  old  friends  thus 
associated  in  the  beautiful  church  that  they 
knew  and  loved  in  the  sweet  days  when  their 
friendship  had  just  begun  and  their  labours 
and  their  honours  were  all  before  them.  I 
placed  myself  where,  during  the  service,  I 
could  look  upon  both  the  busts  at  once  ; and 
presently,  in  the  deathlike  silence,  after  the 
last  amen  of  evensong  had  died  away,  I could 
well  believe  that  those  familiar  figures  were 
kneeling  beside  me,  as  so  often  they  must 
have  knelt  beneath  this  glorious  and  vener- 
able roof : and  for  one  worshipper  at  least 
the  beams  of  the  westering  sun,  that  made  a 
solemn  splendour  through  the  church,  illu- 
mined visions  no  mortal  eyes  could  see. 


THE  HOME  OF  DR.  JOHNSON.  215 


Beneath  the  bust  of  Johnson,  upon  a 
stone  slab  affixed  to  the  wall,  appears  this 
inscription  : — 

The  friends  of  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.,  a 
native  of  Lichfield,  erected  this  monument  as  a 
tribute  of  respect  to  the  memory  of  a man  of 
extensive  learning,  a distinguished  moral  writer 
and  a sincere  Christian.  He  died  the  13th  of 
December,  1784,  aged  75  years. 

A similar  stone  beneath  the  bust  of  Gar- 
rick is  inscribed  as  follows  : — 

Eva  Maria,  relict  of  DAVID  GARRICK,  Esq. , 
caused  this  monument  to  be  erected  to  the  me- 
mory of  her  beloved  husband,  who  died  the  20th 
of  January  1779,  aged  63  years.  He  had  not  only 
the  amiable  qualities  of  private  life,  but  such 
astonishing  dramatick  talents  as  too  well  veri- 
fied the  observation  of  his  friend.  “His  death 
eclipsed  the  gayety  of  nations  and  impoverished 
the  publick  stock  of  harmless  pleasure.” 

This  “ observation  ” is  the  well-known 
statement  of  Johnson,  who,  however  much 
he  may  have  growled  about  Garrick,  always 
loved  him  and  deeply  mourned  for  him. 
These  memorials  of  an  author  and  an  actor 
are  not  rendered  the  more  impressive  by 
being  surmounted,  as  at  present  they  are 


21b 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


in  Lichfield  Cathedral,  with  old  battle-flags 
— commemorative  souvenirs  of  the  80th 
Regiment,  Staffordshire  volunteers — hon- 
ourable and  interesting  relics  in  their  place, 
but  inappropriate  to  the  effigies  of  Johnson 
and  Garrick. 

The  house  in  which  Johnson  was  born 
stands  at  the  corner  of  Market  Street  and 
Breadmarket  Street,  facing  the  little  Market 
Place  of  Lichfield.  It  is  ah  antiquated 
building,  three  stories  in  height,  having  a 
long,  peaked  roof.  The  lower  story  is  re- 
cessed, so  that  the  entrance  is  sheltered  by 
a pent.  Its  two  doors — for  the  structure 
now  consists  of  two  tenements — are  ap- 
proached by  low  stone  steps,  guarded  by  an 
iron  rail.  There  are  ten  windows,  five  in 
each  row,  in  the  front  of  the  upper  stories. 
The  pent-roof  is  supported  by  three  sturdy 
pillars.  The  house  has  a front  of  stucco. 
A bill  in  one  of  the  lower  windows  certifies 
that  now  this  house  is  “To  Let.55  Here 
old  Michael  Johnson  kept  his  bookshop,  in 
the  days  of  good  Queen  Anne,  and  from  this 
door  young  Samuel  Johnson  went  forth  to 
his  school  and  his  play.  The  whole  various, 
pathetic,  impressive  story  of  his  long,  labori- 
ous, sturdy,  beneficent  life  drifts  through 
your  mind  as  you  stand  at  this  threshold 


THE  HOME  OF  DR.  JOHNSON.  21 7 

and  conjure  up  the  pictures  of  the  past. 
Opposite  to  the  house,  and  facing  it,  is  the 
statue  of  Johnson  presented  to  Lichfield  in 
1S38  by  James  Thomas  Low,  then  Chan- 
cellor of  the  diocese.  On  the  sides  of 
its  massive  pedestal  are  sculptures,  show- 
ing first  the  boy,  borne  on  his  father’s 
shoulders,  listening  to  the  preaching  of  Dr. 
Sacheverell ; then  the  youth,  victorious  in 
school,  carried  aloft  in  triumph  by  his  ad- 
miring comrades  ; and,  finally,  the  renowned 
scholar  and  author,  in  the  meridian  of  his 
greatness,  standing  bareheaded  in  the  mar- 
ket-place of  Uttoxeter,  doing  penance  for 
his  undutiful  refusal,  when  a lad,  to  relieve 
his  weary,  infirm  father  in  the  work  of 
tending  the  bookstall  at  that  place.  Every 
one  knows  that  touching  story,  and  no  one 
who  thinks  of  it  when  standing  here  will 
gaze  with  any  feeling  but  that  of  reverence, 
commingled  with  the  wish  to  lead  a true 
and  simple  life,  upon  the  noble,  thoughtful 
face  and  figure  of  the  great  moralist,  who 
now  seems  to  look  down  with  benediction 
upon  the  scenes  of  his  innocent  and  happy 
youth.  The  statue,  which  is  in  striking 
contrast  with  the  humble  birthplace,  points 
the  expressive  moral  of  a splendid  career. 
No  tablet  has  yet  been  placed  on  the  house 


2l8 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


in  which  Johnson  was  born.  Perhaps  it  is 
not  needed.  Yet  surely  this  place,  if  any 
place  on  earth,  ought  to  be  preserved  and 
protected  as  a literary  shrine.  Johnson 
was  not  a great  creative  poet  ; neither  a 
Shakespeare,  a Dryden,  a Byron,  or  a 
Tennyson ; but  he  was  one  of  the  most 
massive  and  majestic  characters  in  English 
literature.  A superb  example  of  self-con- 
quest and  moral  supremacy,  a mine  of 
extensive  and  diversified  learning,  an  intel- 
lect remarkable  for  deep  penetration  and 
broad  and  sure  grasp  of  the  greatest  sub- 
jects, he  exerted,  as  few  men  have  ever 
exerted,  the  original,  elemental  force  of 
genius ; and  his  immortal  legacy  to  his 
fellow-men  was  an  abiding  influence  for 
good.  The  world  is  better  and  happier 
because  of  him,  and  because  of  the  many 
earnest  characters  and  honest  lives  that  his 
example  has  inspired ; and  this  cradle  of 
greatness  ought  to  be  saved  and  marked  for 
every  succeeding  generation  as  long  as  time 
endures. 

One  of  the  interesting  features  of  Lich- 
field is  an  inscription  that  vividly  recalls  the 
ancient  strife  of  Roundhead  and  Cavalier, 
two  centuries  and  a half  ago.  This  is  found 
upon  a stone  scutcheon,  set  in  the  wall  over 


THE  HOME  OF  DR.  JOHNSON  2ig 

the  door  of  the  house  that  is  No.  24  Dam 
Street,  and  these  are  its  words: — “March 
2d,  1643,  Lord  Brooke,  a General  of  the 
Parliament  Forces  preparing  to  Besiege  the 
Close  of  Lichfield,  then  garrisoned  For  King 
Charles  the  First,  Received  his  death - 
wound  on  the  spot  Beneath  this  Inscription, 
By  a shot  in  the  forehead  from  Mr.  Dyott, 
a gentleman  who  had  placed  himself  on  the 
Battlements  of  the  great  steeple,  to  annoy 
the  Besiegers.”  One  of  them  he  must 
have  “ annoyed  ” seriously.  It  was  “a  long 
shot,  Sir  Lucius,”  for,  standing  on  the 
place  of  that  catastrophe  and  looking  up  to 
“the  battlements  of  the  great  steeple,”  it 
seemed  to  have  covered  a distance  of  nearly 
four  hundred  feet.  Other  relics  of  those 
Roundhead  wars  were  shown  in  the  Cathe- 
dral, in  an  ancient  room  now  used  for  the 
Bishop’s  Consistory  Court — these  being  two 
cannon-balls  (fourteen-pounders)  and  the 
ragged  and  rusty  fragments  of  a shell  that 
were  dug  out  of  the  ground  near  the  church 
a few  years  ago.  Many  of  these  practical 
tokens  of  Puritan  zeal  have  been  discovered. 
Lichfield  Cathedral  Close,  in  the  time  of 
Bishop  Walter  de  Langton,  who  died  in 
1321,  was  surrounded  with  a wall  and  fosse, 
and  thereafter  whenever  the  wars  came  it 


220 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


was  used  as  a fortification.  In  the  Stuart 
times  it  was  often  besieged.  Sir  John  Gell 
succeeded  Lord  Brooke,  when  the  latter  had 
been  shot  by  Mr.  Dyott — who  is  said  to  have 
been  “deaf  and  dumb,”  but  who  certainly 
was  not  blind.  The  Close  was  surrendered 
on  March  5,  1643,  and  thereupon  the  Parlia- 
mentary victors,  according  to  their  ruthless 
and  brutal  custom,  straightway  ravaged  the 
church,  tearing  the  brasses  from  the  tombs, 
breaking  the  effigies,  and  utterly  despoiling 
beauty  which  it  had  taken  generations  of 
pious  zeal  and  loving  devotion  to  create. 
The  great  spire  was  battered  down  by  those 
vandals,  and  in  falling  it  wrecked  the 
chapter-house.  The  noble  church,  indeed, 
was  made  a ruin— and  so  it  remained  till 
1661,  when  its  munificent  benefactor,  Bishop 
Hackett,  began  its  restoration,  now  happily 
almost  complete.  Prince  Rupert  captured 
Lichfield  Close  for  the  King  in  April  1643, 
and  General  Lothian  recovered  it  for  the 
Parliament  in  the  summer  of  1646,  after 
which  time  it  was  completely  dismantled. 
Charles  I.  came  to  this  place  after  the 
fatal  battle  of  Naseby,  and  sad  enough 
that  picturesque,  vacillating,  shortsighted, 
beatific  aristocrat  must  have  been,  gazing 
over  the  green  fields  of  Lichfield,  to  know — 


THE  HOME  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 


221 


as  surely  even  he  must  then  have  known — 
that  his  cause  was  doomed,  if  not  entirely 
lost. 

It  will  not  take  you  long  to  traverse 
Lichfield,  and  you  may  ramble  all  around  it 
through  little  green  lanes  between  hedge- 
rows. This  you  will  do  if  you  are  wise,  for 
the  walk,  especially  at  evening,  is  peaceful 
and  lovely.  The  wanderer  never  gets  far 
away*  from  the  Cathedral.  Those  three 
superb  spires  steadily  dominate  the  scene, 
and  each  new  view  of  them  seems  fairer 
than  the  last.  All  around  this  little  city 
the  fields  are  richly  green,  and  many  trees 
diversify  the  prospect.  Pausing  to  rest 
awhile  in  the  mouldering  graveyard  of  old 
St.  Chad’s,  I saw  the  rooks  flocking  home- 
ward to  the  great  tree-tops  not  far  away, 
and  heard  their  many  querulous,  sagacious, 
humorous  croakings,  while  over  the  dis- 
tance, borne  upon  the  mild  and  fragrant 
evening  breeze,  floated  the  solemn  note  of  a 
warning  bell  from  the  minster  tower,  as  the 
shadows  deepened  and  the  night  came 
down.  Scenes  like  this  sink  deep  into  the 
heart,  and  memory  keeps  them  for  ever. 


XVI. 


FROM  LONDON  TO  EDINBURGH. 

EDINBURGH,  September  9,  1889.  — 
Scotland  again,  and  never  more  beauti- 
ful than  now  ! The  harvest  moon  is  shining 
upon  the  grim  old  castle,  and  the  bagpipes 
are  playing  under  my  windows  to-night. 
It  has  been  a lovely  day.  The  train  rolled 
out  of  King’s  Cross,  London,  at  ten  this  morn- 
ing, and  it  rolled  into  Waverley,  Edinburgh, 
about  seven  to-night.  The  trip  by  the  Great 
Northern  Railway  is  one  of  the  most  inte- 
resting journeys  that  can  be  made  in  England. 
At  first  indeed  the  scenery  is  not  striking ; 
but  even  at  first  you  are  whirled  past  spots 
of  exceptional  historic  and  literary  interest 
— among  them  the  battlefield  of  Barnet, 
and  the  old  church  and  graveyard  of  Horn- 
sey where  Tom  Moore  buried  his  little 
daughter  Barbara,  and  where  the  venerable 
poet  Samuel  Rogers  sleeps  the  last  sleep. 
Soon  these  are  gone,  and  presently,  dashing 
through  a flat  country,  you  get  a clear  view 
222 


FROM  LONDON  TO  EDINBURGH.  223 

of  Peterborough  Cathedral,  massive,  dark, 
and  splendid,  with  its  graceful  cone-shaped 
pinnacles,  its  vast  square  central  tower,  its 
lofty  spire,  and  the  three  great  pointed  and 
recessed  arches  that  adorn  its  west  front. 
This  church  contains  the  dust  of  Queen 
Katherine,  the  Spanish  wife  of  Henry  vm., 
who  died  at  Kimbolton  Castle,  Hunting- 
donshire, in  1535,  and  there  the  remains 
of  Mary  Stuart  were  first  buried  (1587), 
— resting  there  a long  time  before  her  son, 
James  I.,  conveyed  them  to  Westminster 
Abbey.  Both  those  queens  were  buried 
by  one  and  the  same  gravedigger — that 
famous  sexton,  Old  Scarlett,  whose  portrait 
is,  or  was,  in  the  cathedral,  and  who  died 
July  2,  1591,  aged  ninety-eight. 

The  country  is  so  level  that  the  receding 
towers  of  Peterborough  remain  for  a long 
time  in  sight,  but  soon, — as  the  train  speeds 
through  pastures  of  clover  and  through 
fields  of  green  and  red  and  yellow  herbage, 
divided  by  glimmering  hedges  and  diversi- 
fied with  red-roofed  villages  and  gray  church- 
towers, — the  land  grows  hilly,  and  long  white 
roads  are  visible  stretching  away  like  bands 
of  silver  over  the  lonely  hill-tops.  Figures 
of  gleaners  are  seen,  now  and  then,  scattered 
through  fields  whence  the  harvest  has  lately 


224 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


been  gathered.  Sheep  are  feeding  in  the 
pastures,  and  cattle  are  couched  under 
fringes  of  woods.  * The  bright  emerald  of 
the  sod  sparkles  with  the  golden  yellow  of 
the  colt’s-foot,  and  sometimes  the  scarlet 
waves  of  the  poppy  come  tumbling  into  the 
plain  like  a cataract  of  fire.  Windmills 
spread  their  whirling  sails  upon  the  summits 
round  about,  and  over  the  nestling  ivy-clad 
cottages  and  over  the  stately  trees  there  are 
great  flights  of  rooks.  A gray  sky  broods 
above,  faintly  suffused  with  sunshine,  but 
there  is  no  glare  and  no  heat,  and  often  the 
wind  is  laden  with  a fragrance  of  wild- 
flowers  and  of  hay. 

It  is  noon  at  Grantham,  where  there  is 
just  time  enough  to  see  that  this  is  a flourish- 
ing city  of  red-brick  houses  and  fine  spa- 
cious streets,  with  a lofty,  spired  church, 
and  far  away  eastward  a high  line  of  hills. 
Historic  Newark  is  presently  reached  and 
passed — a busy,  contented  town,  smiling 
through  the  sunshine  and  mist,  and  as  it 
fades  in  the  distance  I remember  that  we 
are  leaving  Lincoln,  with  its  glorious  Cathe- 
dral, to  the  south-east,  and  to  the  westward 
Newstead  Abbey,  Annesley,  Southwell,  and 
Hucknall-Torkard — places  memorably  asso- 
ciated with  the  poet  Byron,  and  dear  to  the 


FROM  LONDON  TO  EDINBURGH.  225 


heart  of  every  lover  of  poetic  literature. 
At  Markham  the  country  is  exceedingly 
pretty,  with  woods  ancl  hills  over  which 
multitudes  of  rooks  and  starlings  are  in  full 
career,  dark,  rapid,  and  garrulous.  About 
Bawtry  the  land  is  flat,  and  flat  it  continues 
to  be  until  we  have  sped  a considerable  way 
beyond  York.  But  in  the  meantime  we 
flash  through  opulent  Doncaster,  famed  for 
manufactories  and  for  horse-races,  rosy  and 
active  amid  the  bright  green  fields.  There 
are  not  many  trees  in  this  region,  and  as  we 
draw  near  Selby — a large  red-brick  city 
upon  the  banks  of  a broad  river — its  massive 
old  church-tower  looms  conspicuous  under 
smoky  skies.  In  the  outskirts  of  this  town 
there  are  cosy  houses  clad  with  ivy,  in 
which  the  pilgrim  might  well  be  pleased  to 
linger.  But  there  is  no  pause,  and  in  a 
little  while  magnificent  York  bursts  upon 
the  view,  stately  and  glorious,  under  a 
black  sky  that  is  full  of  driving  clouds. 
The  Minster  stands  out  like  a mountain, 
and  the  giant  towers  rear  themselves  in 
solemn  majesty  — the  grandest  piece  of 
church  architecture  in  England  ! The  brim- 
ming Ouse  shines  as  if  it  were  a stream  of 
liquid  ebony.  The  meadows  around  the 
city  glow  like  living  emeralds,  while  the 

p 


226 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


harvest- fields  are  stored  and  teeming  with 
stacks  of  golden  grain.  Great  flights  of 
startled  doves  people  the  air — as  white  as 
snow  under  the  sable  fleeces  of  the  driving 
storm.  I had  seen  York  under  different 
guises,  but  never  before  under  a sky  at  once 
so  sombre  and  so  romantic. 

We  bear  toward  Thirsk  now,  leaving 
behind  us,  westward  of  our  track,  old 
Ripon,  in  the  distance,  memorable  for  many 
associations,  and  cherished  in  theatrical 
annals  as  the  place  of  the  death  and  burial 
of  the  distinguished  founder  of  the  Jefferson 
family  of  actors.  Bleak  Haworth  is  not  far 
distant,  and  remembrance  of  it  prompts  many 
reverent  thoughts  of  the  strange  genius  of 
Charlotte  Bronte.  Darlington  is  the  next 
important  place,  a town  of  manufacture, 
conspicuous  for  its  tall,  smoking  chimneys 
and  evidently  prosperous.  This  is  the  land 
of  stone  walls  and  stone  cottages — the  grim 
precinct  of  Durham.  The  country  is  culti- 
vated, but  rougher  than  the  Midlands,  and 
the  essentially  diversified  character  of  this 
small  island  is  once  again  impressed  upon 
your  mind.  All  through  this  region  there 
are  little  white- walled  houses  with  red  roofs. 
At  Ferry  Hill  the  scenery  changes  again  and 
becomes  American — a mass  of  rocky  gorges 


FROM  LONDON  TO  EDINBURGH.  227 

and  densely  wooded  ravines.  All  trace  of 
storm  has  vanished  by  this  time,  and  when, 
after  a brief  interval  of  eager  expectation, 
the  noble  towers  of  Durham  Cathedral 
sweep  into  the  prospect,  that  superb  monu- 
ment of  ancient  devotion,  together  with  all 
the  dark  gray  shapes  of  that  pictorial  city 
— so  magnificently  placed,  in  an  abrupt 
precipitous  gorge,  on  both  sides  of  the 
brimming  Weir — are  seen  under  a sky  of 
the  softest  Italian  blue,  dappled  with  white 
clouds  of  drifting  fleece.  Durham  is  all  too 
quickly  passed — fading  away  in  a landscape 
sweetly  mellowed  by  a faint  blue  mist. 
Then  stately  rural  mansions  are  seen,  half 
hidden  among  great  trees.  Wreaths  of 
smoke  curl  upward  from  scattered  dwellings 
all  around  the  circle  of  the  hills.  Each 
distant  summit  is  seen  to  be  crowned  with 
a tower  or  a town.  A fine  castle  springs 
into  view  just  before  Birtley  glances  by, 
and  we  see  that  this  is  a place  of  woodlands, 
piquant  with  a little  of  the  roughness  of 
unsophisticated  nature.  But  the  scene 
changes  suddenly,  as  in  a theatre,  and 
almost  in  a moment  the  broad  and  teeming 
Tyne  blazes  beneath  the  scorching  summer 
sun,  and  the  gray  houses  of  Gateshead  and 
Newcastle  fill  the  picture  with  life  and 


228 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


motion.  The  waves  glance  and  sparkle — 
a wide  plain  of  shimmering  silver.  The 
stream  is  alive  with  shipping.  There  is 
movement  everywhere,  and  smoke  and 
industry  and  traffic — and  doubtless  noise, 
though  we  are  on  a height  and  cannot  hear 
it.  A busier  scene  could  not  be  found  in 
all  this  land,  nor  one  more  strikingly 
representative  of  the  industrial  character 
and  interests  of  England. 

After  leaving  Newcastle  we  glide  past  a 
gentle,  winding  ravine,  thickly  wooded  on 
both  its  sides,  with  a bright  stream  glancing 
in  its  depth.  The  meadows  all  around  are 
green,  fresh,  and  smiling,  and  soon  our  road 
skirts  by  beautiful  Morpeth,  bestriding  a 
dark  and  lovely  river  and  crouched  in  a 
bosky  dell.  At  Widdrington  the  land 
shelves  downward,  the  trees  become  sparse, 
and  you  catch  a faint  glimpse  of  the  sea — 
the  broad  blue  wilderness  of  the  Northern 
Ocean.  From  this  point  onward  the  pano- 
rama is  one  of  perfect  and  unbroken  loveli- 
ness. Around  you  are  spacious  meadows 
of  fern,  diversified  with  clumps  of  fir-trees, 
and  the  sweet  wind  that  blows  upon  your 
face  seems  glad  and  buoyant  with  its 
exultant  vitality.  At  Wark worth  Castle 
the  ocean  view  is  especially  magnificent — 


FROM  LONDON  TO  EDINBURGH.  229 

the  brown  and  red  sails  of  the  ships  and 
various  craft  descried  at  sea  contributing 
to  the  prospect  a lovely  element  of  pictur- 
esque character.  Alnwick,  with  its  storied 
associations  of  “the  Percy  out  of  North- 
umberland,” is  left  to  the  westward,  while 
on  the  east  the  romantic  village  of  Aln- 
mouth  wooes  the  traveller  with  an  irresist- 
ible charm.  No  one  who  has  once  seen  that 
exquisite  place  can  ever  be  content  without 
seeing  it  again — and  yet  there  is  no  greater 
wisdom  in  the  conduct  of  life  than  to  avoid 
for  ever  a second  sight  of  any  spot  where 
you  have  once  been  happy.  This  village, 
with  its  little  lighthouse  and  graceful 
steeple,  is  built  upon  a promontory  in  the 
sea,  and  is  approached  over  the  sands  by  a 
long,  isolated  road  across  a bridge  of  four 
fine  arches.  All  the  country-side  in  this 
region  is  rich.  At  Long  Houghton  a grand 
church  uprears  its  vast  square  tower,  lonely 
and  solemn  in  its  place  of  graves.  Royal 
Berwick  comes  next,  stately  and  serene 
upon  its  ocean  crag,  with  the  white-crested 
waves  curling  on  its  beach  and  the  glad 
waters  of  the  Tweed  kissing  the  fringes  of 
its  sovereign  mantle  as  they  rush  into  the 
sea.  The  sun  is  sinking  now,  and  over  the 
many-coloured  meadows,  red  and  brown  and 


230 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


golden  and  green,  the  long,  thin  shadows 
of  the  trees  slope  eastward  and  softly  hint 
the  death  of  day.  The  sweet  breeze  of 
evening  stirs  the  long  grasses,  and  on  many 
a gray  stone  house  shakes  the  late  pink  and 
yellow  roses  and  makes  the  ivy  tremble.  It 
is  Scotland  now,  and  as  we  pass  through  the 
storied  Border  we  keep  the  ocean  almost  con- 
stantly in  view — losing  it  for  a little  while 
at  Dunbar,  but  finding  it  again  at  Drem 
— till,  past  the  battlefield  of  Prestonpans, 
and  past  the  quaint  villages  of  Cockenzie 
and  Musselburgh  and  the  villas  of  Portobello, 
we  come  slowly  to  a pause  in  the  shadow  of 
Arthur’s  Seat,  where  the  great  lion  crouches 
over  the  glorious  city  of  Edinburgh. 


XVII. 


INTO  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

LOCH  AWE,  September  14,  1889. — 
Under  a soft  gray  sky,  and  through 
fields  that  still  are  slumbering  in  the  early 
morning  mist,  the  train  rolls  out  of  Edin- 
burgh, bound  to  the  north.  The  wind  blows 
gently  ; the  air  is  cool ; strips  of  thin,  fleecy 
cloud  are  driving  over  the  distant  hill-tops, 
and  the  birds  are  flying  low.  The  track  is 
by  Queensferry,  and  in  that  region  many 
little  low  stone  cottages  are  seen,  surrounded 
with  simple  gardens  of  flowers.  For  a long 
time  the  train  runs  through  a deep  ravine, 
with  rocky  banks  on  either  hand,  but 
presently  it  emerges  into  pastures  where  the 
sheep  are  grazing,  and  into  fields  in  which 
the  late  harvest  stands  garnered  in  many 
graceful  sheaves.  Tall  chimneys,  vigorously 
smoking,  are  visible  here  and  there  in 
the  distant  landscape.  The  fat,  black  rooks 
are  taking  their  morning  flight,  clamouring 
as  they  go.  Stone  houses  with  red  roofs 

231 


232  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

glide  into  the  picture,  and  a graceful  church  - 
spire  rises  on  a remote  hill-top.  In  all 
directions  there  are  trees,  but  they  seem  of 
recent  growth,  for  no  one  of  them  is  large. 
Soon  the  old  cattle-market  towrn  of  Falkirk 
springs  up  in  the  prospect,  girt  with  fine 
hills  and  crested  with  masses  of  white  and 
black  smoke  that  is  poured  upward  from  the 
many  tall  chimneys  of  its  busy  ironworks. 
The  houses  here  are  made  of  gray  stone  and 
of  red  brick,  and  many  of  them  are  large, 
square  buildings,  seemingly  commodious  and 
opulent.  A huge  cemetery,  hemmed  in  with 
trees  and  shrubs,  is  seen  to  skirt  the  city. 
Carron  river,  with  its  tiny  but  sounding 
cataract,  is  presently  passed,  and  at  Larbert 
your  glance  rests  lovingly  upon  ‘ 4 the  little 
gray  church  on  the  windy  hill.”  North  of 
this  place,  beyond  the  Forth,  the  country  in 
the  distance  is  mountainous,  while  all  the 
intermediate  region  is  rich  with  harvest- 
fields.  Kinnaird  lies  to  the  eastward,  while 
northward  a little  way  is  the  famous  field 
of  Bannockburn.  Two  miles  more  and  the 
train  pauses  in  “gray  Stirling,”  glorious 
with  associations  of  historic  splendour  and 
ancient  romance.  The  Castle  of  Stirling  is 
not  as  ruggedly  grand  as  that  of  Edinburgh, 
but  it  is  a noble  architectural  pile,  and  it  is 


INTO  THE  HIGHLANDS. 


233 


nobly  placed  on  a great  crag  fronting  the 
vast  mountains  and  the  gloomy  heavens  of 
the  North.  The  best  view  of  it  is  obtained 
looking  at  it  southward,  and  as  I gazed 
upon  it,  under  the  cold  and  frowning  sky, 
the  air  was  populous  with  many  birds  that 
circled  around  its  cone-shaped  turrets,  and 
hovered  over  the  plain  below,  while  across 
the  distant  mountain-tops,  east,  west,  and 
north,  dark  and  ragged  masses  of  mist  were 
driven  in  wild,  tempestuous  flight.  Speed- 
ing onward  now,  along  the  southern  bank 
of  the  Forth,  the  traveller  takes  a westerly 
course,  past  Gargunnock  and  Kippen,  see- 
ing little  villages  of  gray  stone  cottages 
nestled  in  the  hill-gaps,  distant  mountain- 
sides, clad  with  furze,  dark  patches  of 
woodland,  and  moors  of  purple  heather  com- 
mingled with  meadows  of  brilliant  green. 
The  sun  breaks  out,  for  a few  moments, 
and  the  sombre  hue  of  the  gray  sky  is  light- 
ened with  streaks  of  gold.  At  Bucklyvie 
there  is  a second  pause,  and  then  the  course 
is  north-west,  through  banks  and  braes  of 
heather,  to  peaceful  Aberfoyle  and  the 
mountains  of  Menteith. 

The  characteristic  glory  of  the  Scottish 
hills  is  the  infinite  variety  and  beauty 
of  their  shapes,  and  the  loveliness  of  their 


234 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


colour.  The  English  mountains  and  lakes 
in  Westmoreland  and  Cumberland  possess 
a sweeter  and  softer  grace,  and  are  more 
calmly  and  wooingly  beautiful ; but  the 
Scottish  mountains  and  lakes  excel  them  in 
grandeur,  majesty,  and  romance.  It  would 
be  presumption  to  undertake  to  describe 
the  solemn  austerity,  the  lofty  and  lonely 
magnificence,  the  bleak,  weird,  haunted 
isolation,  and  the  fairy-like  fantasy  of  this 
poetic  realm  ; but  a lover  of  it  may  de- 
clare his  passion  and  speak  his  sense  of  its 
enthralling  and  bewitching  charm.  Sir 
Walter  Scott’s  spirited  and  trenchant  lines 
on  the  emotion  of  the  patriot  sang  them- 
selves over  and  over  in  my  thought,  and 
were  wholly  and  grandly  ratified,  as  the  coach 
rolled  up  the  mountain  road,  ever  climbing 
height  after  height,  while  new  and  ever  new 
prospects  continually  unrolled  themselves 
before  delighted  eyes,  on  the  familiar  but 
always  novel  journey  from  Aberfoyle  to 
the  Trosachs.  That  mountain  road,  on  its 
upward  course,  and  during  most  part  of  the 
way,  winds  through  treeless  pasturelana, 
and  in  every  direction,  as  your  vision  ranges, 
you  behold  other  mountains  equally  bleak, 
save  for  the  bracken  and  the  heather, 
among  which  the  sheep  wander  and  the 


INTO  THE  HIGHLANDS. 


235 


grouse  nestle  in  concealment,  or  whir  away 
on  frightened  wings.  Ben  Lomond,  wrapt 
in  straggling  mists,  was  dimly  visible  far 
to  the  west ; Ben  A’an  towered  conspicuous 
in  the  foreground ; and  further  north  Ben 
Ledi  heaved  its  broad  mass  and  rugged 
sides  to  heaven.  Loch  Vennacher,  seen  for 
a few  moments,  shone  like  a diamond  set  in 
emeralds,  and  as  we  gazed  we  seemed  to  see 
the  bannered  barges  of  Roderick  Dhu  and 
to  hear  the  martial  echoes  of  “ Hail  to  the 
Chief.  ” Loch  Achray  glimmered  forth  for  an 
instant  under  the  gray  sky,  as  when  “ the 
small  birds  would  not  sing  aloud  ” and  the 
wrath  equally  of  tempest  and  of  war  hung 
silently  above  it  in  one  awful  moment  of  sus- 
pense. There  was  a sudden  and  dazzling 
vision  of  Loch  Katrine,  and  then  all  prospect 
was  broken,  and,  rolling  down  among  the 
thickly  wooded  dwarf  hills  that  give  the  name 
of  Trosachs  to  this  place,  we  were  lost  in  the 
masses  of  fragrant  foliage  that  girdle  and 
adorn  in  perennial  verdure  the  hallowed 
scene  of  “ The  Lady  of  the  Lake.” 

Loch  Katrine  is  another  Lake  Horicon, 
with  a gentler  environment,  and  this — like 
all  the  Scottish  lakes — has  the  advantage  of 
a more  evenly  sharp  and  vigorous  air  and 
of  leaden  and  frowning  skies  (in  which, 


236  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

nevertheless,  there  is  a peculiar,  penetrating 
light),  that  darken  their  waters  and  impart 
to  them  a dangerous  aspect  that  yet  is 
strangely  beautiful.  As  we  swept  past 
“Ellen’s  Island”  and  Fitz- James’s  “Silver 
Strand  ” I was  grateful  to  see  them  in  the 
mystery  of  this  gray  light  and  not  in  the 
garish  sunshine.  All  around  this  sweet  lake 
are  the  sentinel  mountains, — Ben  Venue 
rising  in  the  south,  Ben  A’an  in  the  east, 
and  all  the  castellated  ramparts  that  girdle 
Glen  Finglas  in  the  north.  The  eye  dwells 
enraptured  upon  the  circle  of  the  hills ; but 
by  this  time  the  imagination  is  so  acutely 
stimulated,  and  the  mind  is  so  filled  with 
glorious  sights  and  exciting  and  ennobling 
reflections,  that  the  sense  of  awe  is  tempered 
with  a pensive  sadness,  and  you  feel  your- 
self rebuked  and  humbled  by  the  final  and 
effectual  lesson  of  man’s  insignificance  that 
is  taught  by  the  implacable  vitality  of  these 
eternal  mountains.  It  is  a relief  to  be 
brought  back  for  a little  to  common  life, 
and  this  relief  you  find  in  the  landing  at 
Stronachlachar  and  the  ensuing  drive  — 
across  the  narrow  strip  of  the  shire  of 
Stirling  that  intervenes  between  Loch  Kat- 
rine and  Loch  Lomond — to  the  port  of  In- 
versnaid.  This  drive  is  through  a wild  and 


INTO  THE  HIGHLANDS. 


237 


picturesque  country,  but  after  the  mountain 
road  from  Aberfoyle  to  the  Trosachs  it  could 
not  well  seem  otherwise  than  calm — at  least 
till  the  final  descent  into  the  vale  of  Inver  - 
snaid.  From  Inversnaid  there  is  a short 
sail  upon  the  northern  waters  of  Loch  Lomond 
— for  ever  haunted  by  the  shaggy  presence 
of  Rob  Roy  and  the  fierce  and  terrible  image 
of  Helen  Macgregor — and  then,  landing  at 
Ardlui,  you  drive  past  Inverarnan  and  hold 
a northern  course  to  Crianlarich,  travers- 
ing the  vale  of  the  Falloch  and  skirting 
along  the  western  slope  of  the  grim  and 
gloomy  Grampians — on  which  for  miles  and 
miles  no  human  habitation  is  seen,  nor  any 
living  creature  save  the  vacant,  abject  sheep. 
The  mountains  are  everywhere  now,  brown 
with  bracken  and  purple  with  heather, 
stony,  rugged,  endless,  desolate,  and  still 
with  a stillness  that  is  awful  in  its  pitiless 
sense  of  inhumanity  and  utter  isolation. 
At  Crianlarich  the  railway  is  found  again, 
and  thence  you  whirl  onward  through  lands 
of  Breadalbane  and  Argyle  to  the  proud 
mountains  of  Glenorchy  and  the  foot  of  that 
loveliest  of  all  the  lovely  waters  of  Scotland 
— the  ebony  crystal  of  Loch  Awe.  The 
night  is  deepening  over  it  as  I write  these 
words.  The  dark  and  solemn  mountains 


238  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

that  guard  it  stretch  away  into  the  myste- 
rious distance  and  are  lost  in  the  shuddering 
gloom.  The  gray  clouds  have  drifted  by, 
and  the  cold,  clear  stars  of  autumnal  heaven 
are  reflected  in  its  crystal  depth,  unmarred 
by  even  the  faintest  ripple  upon  its  surface. 
A few  small  boats,  moored  to  anchored 
buoys,  float  motionless  upon  it  a little 
way  from  shore.  There,  on  its  lonely 
island,  dimly  visible  in  the  fading  light, 
stands  the  gray  ruin  of  Kilchurn.  A faint 
whisper  comes  from  the  black  woods  that 
fringe  the  mountain  base,  and  floating  from 
far  across  this  lonely,  haunted  water  there 
is  a drowsy  bird-note  that  calls  to  silence 
and  to  sleep. 


XVIII. 


HIGHLAND  BEAUTIES. 

OBAN,  September  17,  1889.— Seen  in  the 
twilight,  as  I first  saw  it,  Oban  is  a 
pretty  and  picturesque  seaside  village,  gay 
with  glancing  lights  and  busy  with  the 
movements  of  rapid  vehicles  and  expedi- 
tious travellers.  It  is  called  the  capital  of 
the  Western  Highlands,  and  no  doubt  it 
deserves  the  name,  for  it  is  the  common 
centre  of  all  the  trade  and  enterprise  of  this 
region,  and  all  the  threads,  of  travel  radiate 
from  it.  Built  in  a semicircle,  along  the 
margin  of  a lovely  sheltered  bay,  it  looks 
forth  upon  the  wild  waters  of  the  Firth  of 
Lorn,  visible,  south-westerly,  through  the 
sable  sound  of  Kerrera,  while  behind  and 
around  it  rises  a bold  range  of  rocky 
and  sparsely  wooded  hills.  On  these  are 
placed  a few  villas,  and  on  a point  toward 
the  north  stand  the  venerable,  ivy-clad 
ruins  of  Dunolly  Castle,  in  the  ancestral 
domain  of  the  ancient  Highland  family  of 
Macdougall.  The  houses  of  Oban  are  built 

239 


240 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


of  gray  stone,  and  are  mostly  modern.  There 
are  many  hotels  fronting  upon  the  Parade, 
which  extends  for  a long  distance  upon  the 
verge  of  the  sea.  The  opposite  shore  is 
Kerrera,  an  island  about  a mile  distant,  and 
beyond  that  island,  and  beyond  Lorn  water, 
extends  the  beautiful  island  of  Mull,  con- 
fronting the  iron-ribbed  Morven  of  Ossian. 
In  many ' ways  Oban  is  suggestive  of  an 
American  seaport  upon  the  New-England 
coast.  Various  characteristics  mark  it 
that  may  be  seen  at  Gloucester,  Massa- 
chusetts (although  that  once  romantic  place 
has  been  spoiled  by  the  Irish  peasantry), 
and  at  Mount  Desert  in  Maine.  The  sur- 
roundings, indeed,  are  different ; for  the 
Scottish  hills  have  a delicious  colour  and  a 
wildness  all  their  own  ; while  the  skies, 
unlike  those  of  blue  and  brilliant  America, 
lower  and  gloom  and  threaten,  and  tinge 
the  whole  world  beneath  them — the  moors, 
the  mountains,  the  clustered  gray  villages, 
the  lonely  ruins,  and  the  tumbling  plains 
of  the  desolate  sea — with  a melancholy, 
romantic,  shadowy  darkness,  the  perfect 
twilight  of  poetic  vision.  No  place  could 
be  more  practical  than  Oban  is,  in  its  every- 
day life,  nor  any  place  more  sweet  and 
dreamlike  to  the  pensive  mood  of  contem- 


HIGHLAND  BEAUTIES. 


241 


plation  and  the  roving  gaze  of  fancy. 
Viewed,  as  I viewed  it,  under  the  starlight 
and  the  drifting  cloud,  between  two  and 
three  o’clock  this  morning,  it  was  a picture 
of  beauty,  never  to  be  forgotten.  A few 
lights  were  twinkling  here  and  there  among 
the  dwellings,  or  momentarily  flaring  on 
the  deserted  Parade.  No  sound  was  heard 
but  the  moaning  of  the  night -wind  and  the 
plash  of  waters  softly  surging  on  the  beach. 
Now  and  then  a belated  passenger  came 
wandering  along  the  pavement  and  dis- 
appeared in  a turn  of  the  road.  The  air 
was  sweet  with  the  mingled  fragrance  of 
the  heathery  hills  and  the  salt  odours  of  the 
sea.  Upon  the  glassy  bosom  of  the  bay — 
dark,  clear,  and  gently  undulating  with  the 
pressure  of  the  ocean  tide — more  than 
seventy  small  boats,  each  moored  at  a buoy 
and  all  veered  in  one  direction,  swung  care- 
less on  the  water  ; and  mingled  with  them 
were  upward  of  twenty  schooners  and  little 
steamboats,  all  idle  and  all  at  peace.  Many 
an  hour  of  toil  and  sorrow  is  yet  to  come 
before  the  long,  strange  journey  of  this  life 
is  ended  ; but  the  memory  of  that  wonderful 
midnight  moment,  alone  with  the  majesty  of 
Nature,  will  be  a solace  in  the  darkest  of 
them. 


Q 


242  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 

The  Highland  journey,  from  first  to  last, 
is  an  experience  altogether  novel  and  pre- 
cious, and  it  is  remembered  with  gratitude 
and  delight.  Before  coming  to  Oban  I gave 
two  nights  and  days  to  Loch  Awe — a place 
so  beautiful  and  so  fraught  with  the  means 
of  happiness  that  time  stands  still  in  it,  and 
even  “the  ceaseless  vulture  ” of  care  and 
regret  ceases  for  a while  to  vex  the  spirit 
with  remembrance  of  anything  that  is  sad. 
Looking  down  from  the  summit  of  one  of 
the  great  mountains  that  are  the  rich  and 
rugged  setting  of  this  jewel,  I saw  the 
crumbling  ruin  of  Kilchurn  upon  its  little 
island,  gray  relic  first  of  the  Macgregors 
and  then  of  the  Campbells,  who  dispossessed 
them  and  occupied  their  realm.  It  must 
have  been  an  imperial  residence  once.  Its 
situation — cut  off  from  the  mainland  and 
commanding  a clear  view,  up  the  lake  and 
down  the  valleys,  southward  and  northward 
— is  superb.  No  enemy  could  approach  it 
unawares,  and  doubtless  the  followers  of 
the  Macgregor  occupied  every  adjacent  pass 
and  were  ambushed  in  every  thicket  on  the 
heights.  Seen  from  the  neighbouring  moun- 
tain-side the  waters  of  Loch  Awe  are  of  such 
crystal  clearness  that  near  some  part  of  the 
shore  the  white  sands  are  visible  in  perfect 


HIGHLAND  BEAUTIES. 


243 


outline  beneath  them,  while  all  the  glorious 
engirdling  hills  are  reflected  in  their  still 
and  shining  depth.  Sometimes  the  sun 
flashed  out  and  changed  the  waters  to  liquid 
silver,  lighting  up  the  gray  ruin  and  flood- 
ing the  mountain  slopes  with  gold ; but 
more  often  the  skies  kept  their  sombre  hue, 
darkening  all  beneath  them  with  a lovely 
gloom.  All  around  were  the  beautiful  hills 
of  Glenorchy,  and  far  to  the  eastward  great 
waves  of  white  and  leaden  mist,  slowly 
drifting  in  the  upper  ether,  now  hid  and  now 
disclosed  the  Olympian  head  of  Ben  Lui 
and  the  tangled  hills  of  Glen  Shirra  and 
Glen  Fyne.  Close  by,  in  its  sweet  vale  of 
Sabbath  stillness,  was  couched  the  little 
town  of  Dalmally,  sole  reminder  of  the  pre- 
sence of  man  in  these  remote  solitudes,  where 
Nature  keeps  the  temple  of  her  worship,  and 
where  words  are  needless  to  utter  her  glory 
and  her  praise.  All  day  long  the  peaceful  lake 
slumbered  in  placid  beauty  under  the  solemn 
sky — a few  tiny  boats  and  two  little  steamers 
swinging  at  anchor  on  its  bosom.  All  day 
long  the  shadows  of  the  clouds,  commingled 
with  flecks  of  sunshine,  went  drifting  over 
the  mountain.  At  nightfall  two  great  flocks 
of  sheep,  each  attended  by  the  pensive 
shepherd  in  his  plaid,  and  each  guided  and 


244 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


managed  by  those  wonderfully  intelligent 
collies  that  are  a never-failing  delight  in 
these  mountain  lands,  came  slowly  along 
the  vale  and  presently  vanished  in  Glen  Strae. 
Nothing  then  broke  the  stillness  but  the 
sharp  cry  of  the  shepherd’s  dog  and  the 
sound  of  many  cataracts,  some  hidden  and 
some  seen,  that  lapse  in  music  and  fall 
in  many  a mass  of  shattered  silver  and 
flying  spray,  through  deep,  rocky  rifts 
down  the  mountain-side.  After  sunset  a 
cold  wind  came  on  to  blow,  and  soon  the 
heavens  were  clear  and  “ all  the  number 
of  the  stars  ” were  mirrored  in  beautiful 
Loch  Awe. 

They  speak  of  the  south-western  extremity 
of  this  lake  as  the  head  of  it.  Loch  Awe 
station,  accordingly,  is  at  its  foot,  near 
Kilchurn.  Nevertheless,  “ where  Macgregor 
sits  is  the  head  of  the  table,”  for  the  foot  of 
the  loch  is  lovelier  than  its  head.  And  yet 
its  head  also  is  lovely,  although  in  a less 
positive  way.  From  Loch  Awe  station  to 
Ford,  a distance  of  twenty-six  miles,  you 
sail  in  a toy  steamboat,  sitting  either  on  the 
open  deck  or  in  a cabin  of  glass  and  gazing 
at  the  panorama  of  the  hills  on  either 
hand,  some  wooded  and  some  bare,  and 
all  magnificent.  A little  after  passing  the 


HIGHLAND  BEAUTIES. 


245 


mouth  of  the  river  Awe,  which  flows 
through  the  black  Pass  of  Brander  and 
unites  with  Loch  Etive,  I saw  the  double 
crest  of  great  Ben  Cruachan  towering  into 
the  clouds  and  visible  at  intervals  above 
them — the  higher  peak  magnificently  bold. 
It  is  a wild  country  all  about  this  region, 
but  here  and  there  you  see  a little  hamlet 
or  a lone  farm-house,  and  among  the  moor- 
lands the  occasional  figure  of  a sportsman 
with  his  dog  and  gun.  As  the  boat  sped 
onward  into  the  moorland  district  the 
mountains  became  great  shapes  of  snowy 
crystal,  under  the  sullen  sky,  and  presently 
resolved  into  vast  cloud-shadows  dimly  out- 
lined against  the  northern  heavens,  and 
seemingly  based  upon  a sea  of  rolling  vapour. 
The  sail  is  past  Innisdrynich,  the  island  of 
the  Druids,  past  Inishail  and  Inis  Fraoch, 
and  presently  past  the  lovely  ruin  of  Innis- 
Chonnel  Castle,  called  also  Ardchonnel, 
facing  southward,  at  the  end  of  an  island 
promontory,  and  covered  thick  with  ivy. 
The  landing  is  at  Ford  Pier,  and  about  one 
mile  from  that  point  you  may  see  a little 
inn,  a few  cottages  crumbling  in  pictur- 
esque decay,  and  a diminutive  kirk,  that 
constitute  the  village  of  Ford.  My  purpose 
here  was  to  view  an  estate  close  by  this 


246  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

village,  now  owned  by  Henry  Bruce,  Esq., 
but  many  years  ago  the  domain  of  Alexander 
Campbell,  an  ancestor  of  my  children,  being 
their  mother’s  grandsire ; and  not  in  all 
Scotland  could  be  found  a more  romantic  spot 
than  the  glen  by  the  lochside  that  shelters 
the  melancholy,  decaying,  haunted  fabric  of 
the  old  house  of  Ederline.  Such  a poet  as 
Edgar  Poe  would  have  revelled  in  that 
place — and  well  he  might  ! There  is  a new 
and  grand  mansion  on  higher  ground  in  the 
park,  but  the  ancient  house,  almost  aban- 
doned now,  is  a thousand  times  more  char- 
acteristic and  interesting  than  the  new  one. 
Both  are  approached  through  a long,  wind- 
ing avenue,  overhung  with  great  trees  that 
interlace  their  branches  above  it  and  make  a 
cathedral  aisle  ; but  soon  the  pathway  to  the 
older  house  turns  aside  into  a grove  of  chest- 
nuts, birches,  and  yews, — winding  under  vast 
dark  boughs  that  bend  like  serpents  com- 
pletely to  the  earth  and  then  ascend  once 
more, — and  so  goes  onward  through  sombre 
glades  and  through  groves  of  rhododendron  to 
the  levels  of  Loch  Ederline  and  the  front  of 
the  mansion,  now  desolate  and  half  in  ruins. 
It  was  an  old  house  a hundred  years  ago.  It 
is  covered  with  ivy  and  buried  among  the 
trees,  and  on  its  surface  and  on  the  tree- 


HIGHLAND  BEAUTIES. 


247 


trunks  around  it  the  lichen  and  the  yellow 
moss  have  gathered  in  rank  luxuriance.  The 
waters  of  the  lake  ripple  upon  a rocky  land- 
ing almost  at  its  door.  Here  once  lived  as 
proud  a Campbell  as  ever  breathed  in  Scot- 
land, and  here  his  haughty  spirit  wrought 
out  for  itself  the  doom  of  a lonely  age  and  a 
broken  heart.  His  grave  is  on  a little  island 
in  the  lake — a family  burial-ground,1 2  such  as 
may  often  be  found  on  ancient  sequestered 
estates  in  the  Highlands — where  the  tall 
trees  wave  above  it  and  the  weeds  are  grow- 
ing thick  upon  its  surface,  while  over  it  the 
rooks  caw  and  clamour  and  the  idle  winds 
career,  in  heedless  indifference  that  is  sadder 
even  than  neglect.  So  destiny  vindicates 
its  inexorable  edict  and  the  great  law  of 
retribution  is  fulfilled.  A stranger  sits  in 

1 On  the  stone  that  marks  this  sepulchre  are  the 
following  inscriptions,  which  may  suitably  be  pre- 
served in  this  chronicle  : — 

Alexander  Campbell  Esquire,  of  Ederline.  Died 

2d  October,  1841.  In  his  76*h  year. 

Matilda  Campbell.  Second  daughter  of  William 
Campbell  Esq.,  of  Ederline.  Died  on  the  21st  Novr 
1842.  In  her  6th  year. 

William  Campbell,  Esq.  of  Ederline.  Died  15th 
January  1855,  in  his  42nd  year. 

Lachlan  Aderson  Campbell.  His  son.  Died  Jan- 
uary 27th,  1859.  In  his  5th  year. 


248  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

his  seat  and  rules  in  his  hall,  and  of  all  the 
followers  that  once  waited  on  his  lightest 
word  there  remains  hut  a single  one — aged, 
infirm,  and  nearing  the  end  of  the  long  jour- 
ney— to  scrape  the  moss  from  his  forgotten 
gravestone  and  to  think  sometimes  of  his 
ancient  greatness  and  splendour,  for  ever 
past  away.  We  rowed  around  Loch  Eder- 
line  and  looked  down  into  its  black  waters 
(that  in  some  parts  have  never  been  sounded, 
and  are  fabled  to  reach  through  to  the  other 
side  of  the  world),  and  as  our  oars  dipped 
and  plashed  the  timid  moor-fowl  scurried 
into  the  bushes  and  the  white  swans  sailed 
away  in  haughty  wrath,  while,  warned  by 
gathering  storm-clouds,  multitudes  of  old 
rooks  that  long  have  haunted  the  place  came 
flying  overhead,  with  many  a querulous 
croak,  toward  their  nests  in  Ederline 
grove. 

Back  to  Loch  Awe  station,  and  presently 
onward  past  the  Falls  of  Cruachan  and 
through  the  grim  Pass  of  Brander — down 
which  the  waters  of  the  Awe  rush  in  a sable 
flood  between  jagged  and  precipitous  cliffs 
for  miles  and  miles — and  soon  we  see  the 
bright  waves  of  Loch  Etive  smiling  under  a 
sunset  sky,  and  the  many  bleak,  brown  hills 
that  fringe  Glen  Lonan  and  range  along  to 


HIGHLAND  BEAUTIES. 


249 


Oban  and  the  verge  of  the  sea.  There  will 
be  an  hour  for  rest  and  thought.  It  seems 
wild  and  idle  to  write  about  these  things. 
Life  in  Scotland  is  deeper,  richer,  stronger, 
and  sweeter  than  any  words  could  possibly 
be  that  any  man  could  possibly  expend  upon 
it.  The  place  is  the  natural  home  of  ima- 
gination, romance,  and  poetry.  Thought  is 
grander  here,  and  passion  is  wilder  and 
more  exuberant  than  on  the  velvet  plains 
and  among  the  chaste  and  stately  elms  of 
the  South.  The  blood  flows  in  a stormier 
torrent  and  the  mind  takes  on  something  of 
the  gloomy  and  savage  majesty  of  those 
gaunt,  barren,  lonely  hills.  Even  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  speaking  of  his  own  great  works 
(which  are  precious  beyond  words,  and  must 
always  be  loved  and  cherished  by  readers 
who  know  what  beauty  is),  said  that  all 
he  had  ever  done  was  to  polish  the  brasses 
that  already  were  made.  This  is  the  soul 
of  excellence  in  British  literature,  and 
this,  likewise,  is  the  basis  of  stability  in 
British  civilisation — that  the  country  is 
lovelier  than  the  loveliest  poetry  that  ever 
was  written  about  it  or  ever  could  be  written 
about  it,  and  that  the  land  and  the  life 
possess  an  inherent  fascination  for  the 
inhabitants  that  nothing  else  could  supply, 


25° 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


and  that  no  influence  can  ever  destroy  or 
ever  seriously  disturb.  Democracy  is  rife 
all  over  the  world,  but  it  will  as  soon  impede 
the  eternal  courses  of  the  stars  as  it  will 
change  the  constitution  or  shake  the  social 
fabric  of  this  realm.  “ Once  more  upon  the 
waters — yet  once  more  ! ” Soon  upon  the 
stormy  billows  of  Lorn  I shall  see  these 
lovely  shores  fade  in  the  distance.  Soon, 
merged  again  in  the  strife  and  tumult  of  the 
commonplace  world,  I shall  murmur,  with 
as  deep  a sorrow  as  the  sad  strain  itself 
expresses,  the  tender  words  of  Scott : — 

“ Glenorchy’s  proud  mountains, 

Kilchurn  and  her  towers, 

Glenstrae  and  Glenlyon 
No  longer  are  ours.” 


XIX. 


THE  HEART  OF  SCOTLAND. 

“ The  Heart  of  Scotland , Britain's  other 
eye." — Ben  Jonson. 

Edinburgh,  august  24,  is90.  — a 

bright  blue  sky,  across  which  many 
masses  of  thin  white  cloud  are  borne  swiftly 
on  the  cool  western  wind,  bends  over  the 
stately  city,  and  all  her  miles  of  gray  man- 
sions and  spacious,  cleanly  streets  sparkle 
beneath  it  in  a flood  of  summer  sunshine. 
It  is  the  Lord’s  Day,  and  most  of  the  high- 
ways are  deserted  and  quiet.  From  the  top 
of  the  Calton  Hill  you  look  down  upon  hun- 
dreds of  blue  smoke-wreaths  curling  upward 
from  the  chimneys  of  the  resting  and  restful 
town,  and  in  every  direction  the  prospect  is 
one  of  opulence  and  peace.  A thousand 
years  of  history  are  here  crystallised  within 
the  circuit  of  a single  glance,  and  while  you 
gaze  upon  one  of  the  grandest  emblems  that 
the  world  contains  of  a storied  and  romantic 
past,  you  behold  likewise  a living  and  re- 

251 


252  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

splendent  pageant  of  the  beauty  of  to-day. 
Nowhere  else  are  the  Past  and  the  Present 
so  lovingly  blended.  There,  in  the  centre, 
towers  the  great  crown  of  St.  Giles.  Hard 
by  are  the  quaint  slopes  of  the  Canongate, 
— teeming  with  illustrious,  or  picturesque, 
or  terrible  figures  of  Long  Ago.  Yonder  the 
glorious  Castle  Crag  looks  steadfastly  west- 
ward,— its  manifold,  wonderful  colours  con- 
tinuously changing  in  the  changeful  daylight. 
Down  in  the  valley  Holyrood,  haunted  by  a 
myriad  of  memories  and  by  one  resplendent 
face  and  entrancing  presence,  nestles  at  the 
foot  of  the  giant  Salisbury  Crag  ; while  the 
dark,  rivened  peak  of  Arthur’s  Seat  rears 
itself  supremely  over  the  whole  stupendous 
scene.  Southward  and  westward,  in  the 
distance,  extends  the  bleak  range  of  the 
Pentland  Hills  ; eastward  the  cone  of  Ber- 
wick Law  and  the  desolate  Bass  Rock 
seem  to  cleave  the  sea ; and  northward, 
beyond  the  glistening  crystal  of  the  Forth, 
— with  the  white  lines  of  embattled  Inch- 
keith  like  a diamond  on  its  bosom, — the 
lovely  Lomonds,  the  virginal  mountain 
breasts  of  Fife,  are  bared  to  the  kiss  of 
heaven.  It  is  such  a picture  as  words  can 
but  faintly  suggest ; but  when  you  look  upon 
it  you  readily  comprehend  the  pride  and  the 


THE  HEART  OF  SCOTLAND.  253 

passion  with  which  a Scotsman  loves  his 
native  land. 

Dr.  Johnson  named  Edinburgh  as  “ a city 
too  well  known  to  admit  description.”  That 
judgment  was  proclaimed  more  than  a hun- 
dred years  ago — before  yet  Caledonia  had 
bewitched  the  world’s  heart  as  the  haunted 
land  of  Robert  Burns  and  Walter  Scott — 
and  if  it  were  true  then  it  is  all  the  more 
true  now.  But  while  the  reverent  pilgrim 
along  the  ancient  highways  of  history  may 
not  wisely  attempt  description,  which  would 
be  superfluous,  he  perhaps  may  usefully 
indulge  in  brief  chronicle  and  impression — 
for  these  sometimes  prove  suggestive  to 
minds  that  are  kindred  with  his  own. 
Hundreds  of  travellers  visit  Edinburgh  ; but 
it  is  one  thing  to  visit  and  another  thing  to 
see ; and  every  suggestion,  surely,  is  of  value 
that  helps  to  clarify  our  vision.  This  capital 
is  not  learned  by  driving  about  it  in  a cab  ; 
for  Edinburgh  to  be  truly  seen  and  com- 
prehended must  be  seen  and  comprehended 
as  an  exponent  of  the  colossal  individu- 
ality of  the  Scottish  character ; and  there- 
fore it  must  be  observed  with  thought. 
Here  is  no  echo  and  no  imitation.  Many 
another  provincial  city  of  Britain  is  a minia- 
ture copy  of  London ; but  the  quality  of 


254  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

Edinburgh  is  her  own.  Portions  of  her 
architecture  do  indeed  denote  a reverence 
for  ancient  Italian  models,  while  certain 
other  portions  reveal  the  influence  of  the 
semi-classical  taste  that  prevailed  in  the 
time  of  the  Regent,  afterwards  George 
iv.  The  democratic  tendency  of  this 
period — expressing  itself  here  precisely  as 
it  does  everywhere  else,  in  button-making 
pettiness  and  vulgar  commonplace — is  like- 
wise sufficiently  obvious.  Nevertheless  in 
every  important  detail  of  Edinburgh,  and 
of  its  life,  the  reticent,  resolute,  formid- 
able, impetuous,  passionate  character  of  the 
Scottish  race  is  conspicuous  and  predominant. 
Much  has  been  said  against  the  Scottish 
spirit — the  tide  of  cavil  purling  on  from  Dr. 
Johnson  to  Sydney  Smith.  Dignity  has 
been  denied  to  it,  and  so  has  magnanimity, 
and  so  has  humour  ; but  there  is  no  audience 
more  quick  than  the  Scottish  audience  to 
respond  either  to  pathos  or  to  mirth  ; there 
is  no  literature  in  the  world  so  musically, 
tenderly,  and  weirdly  poetical  as  the  Scottish 
literature  ; there  is  no  place  on  earth  where 
the  imaginative  instinct  of  the  national 
mind  has  resisted,  as  it  has  resisted  in  Scot- 
land, the  encroachment  of  utility  upon  the 
domain  of  romance ; there  is  no  people  whose 
history  has  excelled  that  of  Scotland  in  the 


THE  HEART  OF  SCOTLAND.  255 

display  of  heroic,  intellectual,  and  moral  pur- 
pose, combined  with  passionate  sensibility  ; 
and  no  city  could  surpass  the  physical 
fact  of  Edinburgh  as  a manifestation  of 
broad  ideas,  unstinted  opulence,  and  grim 
and  rugged  grandeur.  Whichever  way  you 
turn,  and  whatever  object  you  behold,  that 
consciousness  is  always  present  to  your 
thought  — the  consciousness  of  a race  of 
beings  intensely  original,  individual,  pas- 
sionate, authoritative,  and  magnificent. 

The  capital  of  Scotland  is  not  only  beauti- 
ful but  eloquent.  The  present  writer  does 
not  assume  to  describe  it,  or  to  instruct  the 
reader  concerning  it,  but  only  to  declare 
that  at  every  step  the  sensitive  mind  is 
impressed  with  the  splendid  intellect,  the 
individual  force,  and  the  romantic  charm  of 
the  Scottish  character,  as  it  is  commem- 
orated and  displayed  in  this  delightful 
place.  What  a wealth  of  significance  it 
possesses  may  be  indicated  by  even  the  most 
meagre  record  and  the  most  superficial  com- 
mentary upon  the  passing  events  of  a 
traveller’s  ordinary  day.  The  greatest  name 
in  the  literature  of  Scotland  is  Walter 
Scott.  He  lived  and  laboured  for  twenty - 
four  years  in  the  modest  three-story,  gray 
stone  house  which  is  Ho.  39  Castle  Street. 
It  has  been  my  privilege  to  enter  that 


256  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

house,  and  to  stand  in  the  room  in  which 
Scott  began  the  novel  of  Waverley.  Many 
years  roll  backward  under  the  spell  of 
such  an  experience,  and  the  gray-haired 
man  is  a boy  again,  with  all  the  delights  of 
the  Waverley  Novels  before  him,  health 
shining  in  his  eyes  and  joy  beating  in  his 
heart,  as  he  looks  onward  through  vistas  of 
golden  light  into  a paradise  of  fadeless 
flowers  and  of  happy  dreams.  The  room 
that  was  Scott’s  study  is  a small  one,  on 
the  first  floor,  at  the  back,  and  is  lighted 
by  one  large  window,  opening  eastward, 
through  which  you  look  upon  the  rear  walls 
of  sombre,  gray  buildings,  and  upon  a small 
slope  of  green  lawn,  in  which  is  the  un- 
marked grave  of  one  of  Sir  Walter’s  dogs. 
“ The  misery  of  keeping  a dog,”  he  once 
wrote,  “ is  his  dying  so  soon ; but,  to  be 
sure,  if  he  lived  for  fifty  years  and  then 
died,  what  would  become  of  me  ? ” My 
attention  was  called  to  a peculiar  fastening 
on  the  window  of  the  study, — invented  and 
placed  there  by  Scott  himself, — so  arranged 
that  the  sash  can  be  kept  safely  locked  when 
raised  a few  inches  from  the  sill.  On  the 
south  side  of  the  room  is  the  fireplace,  facing 
which  he  would  sit  as  he  wrote,  and  into 
which,  of  an  evening,  he  has  often  gazed, 


THE  HEART  OF  SCOTLAND.  2^7 

hearing  meanwhile  the  moan  of  the  winter 
wind,  and  conjuring  up,  in  the  blazing 
brands,  those  figures  of  brave  knights  and 
gentle  ladies  that  were  to  live  for  ever  in 
the  amber  of  his  magical  art.  Next  to  the 
study,  on  the  same  floor,  is  the  larger  apart- 
ment that  was  his  dining-room,  where  his 
portrait  of  Claverhouse  (now  at  Abbotsford) 
once  hung  above  the  mantel,  and  where  so 
many  of  the  famous  people  of  the  past 
enjoyed  his  hospitality  and  his  talk.  On 
the  south  wall  of  this  room  now  hang  two 
priceless  autograph  letters,  one  of  them  in 
the  handwriting  of  Scott,  the  other  in  that 
of  Burns.  Both  rooms  are  used  for  business 
offices  now, — the  house  being  tenanted  by 
the  agency  of  the  New-Zealand  Mortgage 
Company, — and  both  are  furnished  with 
large  presses  for  the  custody  of  deeds  and 
family  archives.  Nevertheless  these  rooms 
remain  much  as  they  were  when  Scott  lived 
in  them,  and  his  spirit  seems  to  haunt  the 
place.  I was  brought  very  near  to  him  that 
day,  for  in  the  same  hour  was  placed  in 
my  hands  the  original  manuscript  of  his 
Journal,  and  I saw,  in  his  own  handwriting, 
the  last  words  that  ever  fell  from  his  pen. 
That  Journal  is  in  two  quarto  volumes 
of  unruled,  faded  paper,  bound  in  vellum, 
R 


258  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

now  yellowed  with  age,  and  each  provided 
with  a lock.  Sir  Walter  kept  this  diary 
from  November  20,  1825,  to  April  16,  1832, 
and  these  are  the  famous  “locked  books” 
which  were  consulted  by  Lockhart  when  he 
was  writing  the  Life.  One  of  them  is  filled 
with  writing  : the  other  half  filled  : and  the 
lines  in  both  are  of  a fine,  small  character, 
crowded  closely  together.  Toward  the  last 
the  writing  manifests  only  too  well  the 
growing  infirmity  of  the  broken  Minstrel — 
the  forecast  of  the  hallowed  deathbed  of 
Abbotsford  and  the  venerable  and  glorious 
tomb  of  Dryburgh.  Lie  was  on  his  tour  in 
Italy,  from  which  so  much  was  hoped — and 
hoped  in  vain.  These  are  his  last  words : 
“We  slept  reasonably,  but  on  the  next 
morning” — and  so  the  Journal  abruptly  ends. 
I can  in  no  way  express  the  emotion  with 
which  I looked  upon  those  feebly  scrawled 
syllables — the  last  effort  of  the  nerveless 
hand  that  once  had  been  strong  enough  to 
thrill  the  heart  of  all  the  world.  The  Jour- 
nal has  been  lovingly  and  carefully  edited 
by  David  Douglas,  whose  fine  taste  and 
great  gentleness  of  nature,  together  with 
his  ample  knowledge  of  Scottish  litera- 
ture and  society,  eminently  qualify  him 
for  the  performance  of  this  sacred  duty ; 


THE  HEART  OF  SCOTLAND.  259 

and  the  world  will  possess  this  treasure 
and  feel  the  charm  of  its  beauty  and  pathos 
— which  is  the  charm  of  a great  nature  ex- 
pressed in  its  perfect  simplicity ; but  the 
spell  that  is  cast  upon  the  heart  and  the 
imagination  by  a prospect  of  the  actual  hand- 
writing of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  the  last 
words  that  he  wrote,  cannot  be  conveyed 
in  print. 

From  the  house  in  Castle  Street  I went 
to  the  rooms  of  the  Royal  Society,  where 
there  is  a portrait  of  Scott  — by  John 
Graham  Gilbert — more  life-like — being  re- 
presentative of  his  soul  as  well  as  his 
face  and  person  — than  any  other  that  is 
known.  It  hangs  there,  in  company  with 
other  paintings  of  former  presidents  of 
this  institution, — notably  one  of  Sir  David 
Brewster  and  one  of  James  Watt, — in  the 
hall  in  which  Sir  Walter  often  sat,  pre- 
siding over  the  deliberations  and  literary 
exercises  of  his  comrades  in  scholarship  and 
art.  In  another  hall  I saw  the  pulpit  in 
which  John  Knox  used  to  preach,  in  the 
old  days  of  what  Dr.  Johnson  expressively 
called  “The  ruffians  of  Reformation,”  and 
hard  by  was  “The  Maiden,”  the  terrible 
Scottish  guillotine,  with  its  great  square 
knife  set  in  a thick  weight  of  lead,  by  which 


26o 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


the  grim  Regent  Morton  was  slain  in  1581, 
the  Marquis  of  Argyle  in  1661,  and  the  gal- 
lant, magnanimous,  devoted  Earl  of  Argyle 
in  1685 — one  more  sacrifice  to  the  insatiate 
House  of  Stuart.  This  monster  has  drunk 
the  blood  of  many  a noble  gentleman,  and 
there  is  a weird,  sinister  suggestion  of  grati- 
fied ferocity  and  furtive  malignity  in  its 
rude,  grisly,  uncanny  fabric  of  blackened 
timbers.  You  may  see  in  the  quaint  little 
panelled  chapel  of  St.  Mary  Magdalen,  not 
many  steps  distant  from  the  present  abode 
of  the  sanguinary  “Maiden,”  — brooding 
over  her  hideous  consummation  of  slaughter 
and  misery, — the  place  where  the  mangled 
body  of  the  heroic  Earl  of  Argyle  was  laid, 
in  secret  sanctuary,  for  several  nights  after 
that  scene  of  piteous  sacrifice  at  the  old 
Market  Cross ; and  when  you  walk  in  the 
solemn  enclosure  of  the  Greyfriars  Church, 
— so  fitly  styled  by  Sir  Walter  “ The  West- 
minster Abbey  of  Scotland,” — your  glance 
will  fall  upon  a sunken  pillar,  low  down 
upon  the  northern  slope  of  that  storied, 
lamentable  ground,  which  bears  the  letters 
“I.  M.,”  and  which  marks  the  grave  of  the 
baleful  Morton,  whom  the  Maiden  decapi- 
tated for  his  share  in  the  murder  of  Rizzio. 
In  these  old  cities  there  is  no  keeping  away 


THE  HEART  OF  SCOTLAND.  26 1 

from  sepulchres.  “ The  paths  of  glory,”  in 
every  sense,  “lead  but  to  the  grave.” 
George  Buchanan  and  Allan  Ramsay  (poets 
whom  no  literary  pilgrim  will  neglect)  rest 
in  this  churchyard,  though  the  exact  places 
of  their  interment  are  not  positively  denoted, 
and  here,  likewise,  rest  the  elegant  historian 
Robertson,  and  “The  Addison  of  Scotland,” 
Henry  Mackenzie.  The  building  in  the  High 
Street  in  which  Allan  Ramsay  once  had 
his  abode  and  his  bookshop,  and  in  which 
he  wrote  his  pastoral  of  “ The  Gentle  Shep- 
herd,” is  occupied  now  by  a barber;  but 
since  he  is  one  that  scorns  not  to  proclaim 
over  his  door  in  mighty  letters  the  poetic 
lineage  of  his  dwelling,  it  seems  not  amiss 
that  this  haunt  of  the  Muses  should  have 
fallen  into  such  pious  though  lowly  hands. 
Of  such  a character,  hallowed  with  asso- 
ciations that  pique  the  fancy  and  touch 
the  heart,  are  the  places  and  the  names  that 
an  itinerant  continually  encounters  in  his 
rambles  in  Edinburgh. 

One  could  muse  for  many  an  hour  over 
the  little  Venetian  mirror  that  hangs  in 
the  bedroom  of  Mary  Stuart  in  Holyrood 
Palace.  What  faces  and  what  scenes  it 
must  have  reflected  ! How  often  her  own 
beautiful  countenance  and  person,  — the 


262 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


dazzling  eyes,  the  snowy  brow,  the  red  gold 
hair,  the  alabaster  bosom — may  have  blazed 
in  its  crystal  depths,  now  tarnished  and  dim, 
like  the  record  of  her  own  calamitous  and 
wretched  days  ! Did  those  lovely  eyes  look 
into  this  mirror — and  was  their  glance  scared 
and  tremulous,  or  fixed  and  terrible — on 
that  dismal  February  night,  so  many  years 
ago,  when  the  fatal  explosion  in  the  Kirk  o’ 
Field  resounded  with  an  echo  that  has  never 
died  away?  Who  can  tell?  This  glass 
saw  the  gaunt  and  livid  face  of  Ruthven 
when  he  led  his  comrades  of  murder  into 
that  royal  chamber,  and  it  beheld  Rizzio 
screaming  in  mortal  terror  as  he  was  torn 
from  the  skirts  of  his  mistress  and  savagely 
slain  before  her  eyes.  Perhaps,  also,  when 
that  hideous  episode  was  over  and  done 
with,  it  saw  Queen  Mary  and  her  despicable 
husband  the  next  time  they  met  and  were 
alone  together  in  that  ghastly  room.  “It 
shall  be  dear  blood  to  some  of  you,”  the 
Queen  had  said,  while  the  murder  of  Rizzio 
was  doing.  Surely,  having  so  injured  a 
woman,  any  man  with  eyes  to  see  might 
have  divined  his  fate,  in  the  perfect  calm,  of 
her  heavenly  face  and  the  quiet  tones  of  her 
gentle  voice,  at  such  a moment  as  that. 
“At  the  fireside  tragedies  are  acted  ” — and 


THE  HEART  OF  SCOTLAND.  263 

tragic  enough  must  have  been  the  scene  of 
that  meeting,  apart  from  human  gaze,  in 
the  chamber  of  crime  and  death.  No  other 
relic  of  Mary  Stuart  stirs  the  imagination 
as  this  mirror  does — unless,  perhaps,  it  be 
the  little  ebony  crucifix  once  owned  and 
reverenced  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  now 
piously  treasured  at  Abbotsford,  which  she 
held  in  her  hands  when  she  went  to  her 
death  in  the  hall  of  Fotheringay  Castle. 

Holyrood  Palace,  in  Mary  Stuart’s  time, 
was  not  of  its  present  shape.  The  tower 
containing  her  rooms  was  standing,  and 
from  that  tower  the  building  extended  east- 
ward to  the  abbey,  and  then  it  veered  to  the 
south.  Much  of  this  building  was  destroyed 
by  fire  in  1544,  and  again  in  Cromwell’s 
time,  but  both  church  and  palace  were 
rebuilt.  The  entire  south  side,  with  its 
tower  that  looks  directly  towards  the  crag, 
was  added  in  the  later  period  of  Charles 
11.  The  furniture  in  Mary  Stuart’s  room 
is  mostly  spurious,  but  the  rooms  are  gen- 
uine. Musing  thus,  and  much  striving  to 
reconstruct  those  strange  scenes  of  the 
past,  in  which  that  beautiful,  dangerous 
woman  bore  so  great  a part,  the  pilgrim 
strolls  away  into  the  Canongate, — once 
clean  and  elegant,  now  squalid  and  noisome, 


264  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

— and  still  the  storied  figures  of  history- 
walk  by  his  side  or  come  to  meet  him 
at  every  close  and  wynd.  John  Knox, 
Robert  Burns,  Tobias  Smollett,  David  Hume, 
Dugald  Stuart,  John  Wilson,  Hugh  Miller 
— Gay,  led  onward  by  the  blythe  and  gracious 
Duchess  of  Queensberry,  and  Dr.  Johnson, 
escorted  by  the  affectionate  and  faithful 
James  Boswell,  the  best  biographer  that 
ever  lived,  — these  and  many  more,  the 
lettered  worthies  of  long  ago,  throng  into 
this  haunted  street  and  glorify  it  with  the 
rekindled  splendours  of  other  days.  You 
cannot  be  lonely  here.  This  it  is  that 
makes  the  place  so  eloquent  and  so  precious. 
For  what  did  those  men  live  and  labour? 
To  what  were  their  shining  talents  and 
wonderful  forces  devoted  ? To  the  dissemi- 
nation of  learning ; to  the  emancipation  of 
the  human  mind  from  the  bondage  of  error  ; 
to  the  ministry  of  the  beautiful — and  thus 
to  the  advancement  of  the  human  race  in 
material  comfort,  in  gentleness  of  thought,  in 
charity  of  conduct,  in  refinement  of  manners, 
and  in  that  spiritual  exaltation  by  which,  and 
only  by  which,  the  true  progress  of  mankind 
is  at  once  accomplished  and  proclaimed. 

But  the  dark  has  come,  and  this  Edin- 
burgh ramble  shall  end  with  the  picture 


THE  HEART  OF  SCOTLAND.  265 

that  closed  its  own  magnificent  day. 
You  are  standing  on  the  rocky  summit  of 
Arthur’s  Seat.  From  that  superb  mountain 
peak  your  gaze  takes  in  the  whole  capital, 
together  with  the  country  in  every  direction 
for  many  miles  around.  The  evening  is 
uncommonly  clear.  Only  in  the  west  dense 
masses  of  black  cloud  are  thickly  piled  upon 
each  other,  through  which  the  sun  is  sink- 
ing, red  and  sullen  with  menace  of  the 
storm.  Elsewhere  and  overhead  the  sky  is 
crystal,  and  of  a pale,  delicate  blue.  A 
cold  wind  blows  briskly  from  the  east  and 
sweeps  a million  streamers  of  white  smoke 
in  turbulent  panic  over  the  darkening  roofs 
of  the  city,  far  below.  In  the  north  the 
lovely  Lomond  Hills  are  distinctly  visible 
across  the  dusky  level  of  the  Forth,  which 
stretches  away  toward  the  ocean,  one  broad 
sheet  of  glimmering  steel — its  margin  in- 
dented with  many  a graceful  bay,  and  the 
little  islands  that  adorn  it  shining  like  stones 
of  amethyst  set  in  polished  flint.  A few 
brown  sails  are  visible,  dotting  the  waters, 
and  far  to  the  east  appears  the  graceful  out- 
line of  the  Isle  of  May, — which  was  the 
shrine  of  the  martyred  St.  Adrian, — and  the 
lonely,  wave-beaten  Bass  Rock,  with  its 
.millions  of  seagulls  and  solan  geese.  Busy 


266 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


Leith  and  picturesque  Newhaven  and  every 
little  village  on  the  coast  is  sharply  defined 
in  the  frosty  light.  At  your  feet  is  St. 
Leonards,  with  the  tiny  cottage  of  Jeanie 
Deans.  Yonder,  in  the  south,  are  the  gray 
ruins  of  Craigmillar  Castle — once  the  favour- 
ite summer  home  of  the  Queen  of  Scots,  now 
open  to  sun  and  rain,  mossgrown  and  deso- 
late, and  swept  by  every  wind  that  blows. 
More  eastward  the  eye  lingers  upon  Carberry 
Hill,  where  Mary  surrendered  herself  to  her 
nobles  just  before  the  romantic  episode  of 
Loch  Leven  Castle ; and  far  beyond  that 
height  the  sombre  fields,  intersected  by 
green  hawthorn  hedges  and  many-coloured 
with  the  various  hues  of  pasture  and  harvest, 
stretch  away  to  the  hills  of  Lammermoor 
and  the  valleys  of  Tweed  and  Esk.  Darker 
and  darker  grow  the  gathering  shadows  of 
the  gloaming.  The  lights  begin  to  twinkle 
in  the  city  streets.  The  echoes  of  the  rifles 
die  away  in  the  Hunter’s  Bog.  A piper  far 
off  is  playing  the  plaintive  music  of  “ The 
Blue  Bells  of  Scotland.”  And  as  your  steps 
descend  the  crag  the  rising  moon,  now 
nearly  at  the  full,  shines  through  a gauzy 
mist  and  hangs  above  the  mountain  like  a 
shield  of  gold  upon  the  towered  citadel  of 
night. 


XX. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

MORE  than  a century  has  passed  since 
Walter  Scott  was  born — a poet  des- 
tined to  exercise  a profound,  far-reaching, 
permanent  influence  upon  the  feelings  of  the 
human  race,  and  thus  to  act  a conspicuous 
part  in  its  moral  and  spiritual  development 
and  guidance.  To  the  greatness  of  his  mind, 
the  nobility  of  his  spirit,  and  the  beauty  of 
his  life  there  is  abundant  testimony  in  his 
voluminous  and  diversified  writings,  and  in 
his  ample  and  honest  biography.  Every- 
body who  reads  has  read  something  from  the 
pen  of  Scott,  or  something  commemorative  of 
him,  and  in  every  mind  to  which  his  name 
is  known  it  is  known  as  the  synonym  of  great 
faculties  and  wonderful  achievement.  There 
must  have  been  enormous  vitality  of  spirit, 
prodigious  power  of  intellect,  irresistible 
charm  of  personality,  and  lovable  purity  of 
moral  nature  in  the  man  whom  thousands 
that  never  saw  him  living — men  and  women 

267 


268 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


of  a later  age  and  different  countries — know 
and  remember  and  love  as  Sir  Walter 
Scott.  Others  have  written  greatly.  Milton, 
Dryden,  Addison,  Pope,  Cowper,  Johnson, 
Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Landor, — these 
are  only  a few  of  the  imperial  names  that 
cannot  die.  But  these  names  live  in  the 
world’s  respect.  The  name  of  Scott  lives 
in  its  affection.  What  other  name  of  the 
past  in  English  literature — unless  it  be 
that  of  Shakespeare — arouses  such  a deep 
and  sweet  feeling  of  affectionate  interest, 
gentle  pleasure,  gratitude,  and  reverential 
love  ? 

The  causes  of  Sir  Walter  Scott’s  ascendency 
are  to  be  found  in  the  goodness  of  his  heart ; 
the  integrity  of  his  conduct ; the  romantic 
and  picturesque  accessories  and  atmosphere 
of  his  life ; the  fertile  brilliancy  of  his  literary 
execution ; the  charm  that  he  exercises, 
both  as  man  and  artist,  over  the  imagina- 
tion ; the  serene,  tranquillising  spirit  of  his 
works  ; and,  above  all,  the  buoyancy,  the 
happy  freedom,  of  his  genius.  He  was 
not  simply  an  intellectual  power ; he  was 
also  a human  and  gentle  comforter.  He 
wielded  an  immense  mental  force,  but  he 
always  wielded  it  for  good,  and  always  with 
tenderness.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  of 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


269 


his  ever  having  done  a wrong  act,  or  ot  any 
contact  with  his  influence  that  would  not 
inspire  the  wish  to  be  virtuous  and  noble. 
The  scope  of  his  sympathy  was  as  broad  as 
the  weakness  and  the  need  are  of  the  human 
race.  He  understood  the  hardship,  the 
dilemma,  in  the  moral  condition  of  mankind : 
he  wished  people  to  be  patient  and  cheerful, 
and  he  tried  to  make  them  so.  His  writings 
are  full  of  sweetness  and  cheer,  and  they 
contain  nothing  that  is  morbid, — nothing 
that  tends  toward  surrender  and  misery. 
He  did  not  sequester  himself  in  mental 
pride,  but  simply  and  sturdily,  through 
years  of  conscientious  toil,  he  employed  the 
faculties  of  a strong,  tender,  gracious  genius 
for  the  good  of  his  fellow-creatures.  The 
world  loves  him  because  he  is  worthy  to  be 
loved,  and  because  he  has  lightened  the 
burden  of  its  care  and  augmented  the  sum 
of  its  happiness. 

Certain  differences  and  confusions  of 
opinion  have  arisen  from  the  consideration 
of  his  well-known  views  as  to  the  literary 
art,  together  with  his  equally  well-known 
ambition  to  take  and  to  maintain  the  rank 
and  estate  of  a country  squire.  As  an 
artist  he  had  ideals  that  he  was  never  able 
to  fulfil.  As  a man,  and  one  who  w’as 


270  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

influenced  by  imagination,  taste,  patriotism, 
family  pride,  and  a profound  belief  in  estab- 
lished monarchical  institutions,  it  was 
natural  that  he  should  wish  to  found  a 
grand  and  beautiful  home  for  himself  and 
his  posterity.  A poet  is  not  the  less  a poet 
because  he  thinks  modestly  of  his  writings 
and  practically  knows  and  admits  that 
there  is  something  else  in  the  world  beside 
literature ; or  because  he  happens  to  want 
his  dinner  and  a roof  to  cover  him.  In 
trying  to  comprehend  a great  man,  a good 
method  is  to  look  at  his  life  as  a whole,  and 
not  to  deduce  petty  inferences  from  the  dis- 
torted interpretation  of  petty  details.  Sir 
Walter  Scott’s  conduct  of  life,  like  the 
character  out  of  which  it  sprang,  was  simple 
and  natural.  In  all  that  he  did  you  may 
perceive  the  influence  of  imagination  acting 
upon  the  finest  reason  ; the  involuntary  con- 
sciousness of  reserve  power  ; habitual  defer- 
ence to  the  voice  of  duty ; an  aspiring  and 
picturesque  plan  of  artistic  achievement  and 
personal  distinction ; and  deep  knowledge 
of  the  world.  If  ever  there  was  a man  who 
lived  to  be  and  not  to  seem,  that  man  was 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  He  made  no  pretensions. 
He  claimed  nothing,  but  he  quietly  and 
earnestly  earned  all.  His  means  were  the 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


271 


oldest  and  the  best ; self-respect,  hard  work, 
and  fidelity  to  duty.  The  development  of 
his  nature  was  slow,  but  it  was  thorough 
and  it  was  wholesome.  He  was  not  ham- 
pered by  precocity  and  he  was  not  spoiled 
by  conceit.  He  acted  according  to  himself, 
honouring  his  individuality  and  obeying  the 
inward  monitor  of  his  genius.  But,  combined 
with  the  delicate  instinct  of  a gentleman, 
he  had  the  wise  insight,  foresight,  and 
patience  of  a philosopher  ; and  therefore  he 
respected  the  individuality  of  others,  the 
established  facts  of  life,  and  the  settled  con- 
ventions of  society.  His  mind  was  neither 
embittered  by  revolt  nor  sickened  by  delu- 
sion. Having  had  the  good  fortune  to  be 
born  in  a country  in  which  a right  plan 
of  government  prevails — the  idea  of  the 
family  — the  idea  of  the  strong  central 
power  at  the  head,  with  all  other  powers 
subordinated  to  it,  — he  felt  no  impulse 
toward  revolution,  no  desire  to  regulate  all 
things  anew  ; and  he  did  not  suffer  perturba- 
tion from  the  feverish  sense  of  being  sur- 
rounded with  uncertainty  and  endangered 
by  exposure  to  popular  caprice.  During  the 
period  of  immaturity,  and  notwithstanding 
physical  weakness  aud  pain,  his  spirit  was 
kept  equable  and  cheerful,  not  less  by  the 


27 2 GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

calm  environment  of  a permanent  civilisa- 
tion than  by  the  clearness  of  his  perceptions 
and  the  sweetness  of  his  temperament.  In 
childhood  and  youth  he  endeared  himself  to 
all  who  came  near  him,  winning  affection 
by  inherent  goodness  and  charm.  In  riper 
years  that  sweetness  was  reinforced  by 
great  sagacity,  which  took  broad  views  of 
individual  and  social  life ; so  that  both  by 
knowledge  and  by  impulse  he  was  a serene 
and  happy  man. 

The  quality  that  first  impresses  the 
student  of  the  character  and  the  writings  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott  is  truthfulness.  He  was 
genuine.  Although  a poet,  he  suffered  no 
torment  from  vague  aspirations.  Although 
once,  and  miserably,  a disappointed  lover, 
he  permitted  no  morbid  repining.  Although 
the  most  successful  author  of  his  time,  he 
displayed  no  egotism.  To  the  end  of  his 
days  he  was  frank  and  simple — not  indeed 
sacrificing  the  reticence  of  a dignified,  self- 
reliant  nature,  but  suffering  no  blight  from 
success,  and  wearing  illustrious  honours 
with  spontaneous,  unconscious  grace.  This 
truthfulness — the  consequence  and  the  sign 
of  integrity  and  of  great  breadth  of  intel- 
lectual vision — moulded  Sir  Walter  Scott’s 
ambition  and  stamped  the  practical  results 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


273 


of  his  career.  A striking  illustration  of  this 
is  seen  in  his  first  adventure  in  literature. 
The  poems  originally  sprang  from  the  spon- 
taneous action  of  the  poetic  impulse  and 
faculty  ; but  they  were  put  forth  modestly, 
in  order  that  the  author  might  guide  him- 
self according  to  the  response  of  the  public 
mind.  He  knew  that  he  might  fail  as  an 
author,  but  for  failure  of  that  sort,  although 
he  was  intensely  ambitious,  he  had  no  dread. 
There  would  always  remain  to  him  the 
career  of  private  duty  and  the  life  of  a 
gentleman.  This  view  of  him  gives  the  key 
to  his  character  and  explains  his  conduct. 
Neither  amid  the  experimental  vicissitudes 
of  his  youth,  nor  amid  the  labours,  achieve- 
ments, and  splendid  honours  of  his  man- 
hood, did  he  ever  place  the  imagination 
above  the  conscience,  or  brilliant  writing 
above  virtuous  living,  or  art  and  fame  above 
morality  and  religion.  “I  have  been,  per- 
haps, the  most  voluminous  author  of  the 
day,”  he  said,  toward  the  close  of  his  life ; 
“and  it  is  a comfort  to  me  to  think  that  I 
have  tried  to  unsettle  no  man’s  faith,  to 
corrupt  no  man’s  principles,  and  that  I 
have  written  nothing  which,  on  my  death- 
bed, I should  wish  blotted.”  When  at  last 
he  lay  upon  that  deathbed  the  same  thought 


274  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

animated  and  sustained  him.  “My  dear,” 
he  said,  to  Lockhart,  “be  a good  man,  be 
virtuous,  be  religious — be  a good  man. 
Nothing  else  will  give  you  any  comfort 
when  you  come  to  lie  here.”  The  mind 
which  thus  habitually  dwelt  upon  goodness 
as  the  proper  object  of  human  ambition  and 
the  chief  merit  of  human  life  was  not  likely 
to  vaunt  itself  on  its  labours  or  to  indulge 
any  save  a modest  and  chastened  pride  in 
its  achievements. 

And  this  view  of  him  explains  the  affec- 
tionate reverence  with  which  the  memory 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott  is  cherished.  He  was 
pre-eminently  a type  of  the  greatness  that 
is  associated  with  virtue.  But  his  virtue 
was  not  decorum  and  it  was  not  goody  ism. 
He  does  not,  with  Addison,  represent 
elegant  austerity ; and  he  does  not,  with 
Montgomery,  represent  amiable  tameness. 
His  goodness  was  not  insipid.  It  does  not 
humiliate  ; it  gladdens.  It  is  ardent  with 
heart  and  passion.  It  is  brilliant  with 
imagination.  It  is  fragrant  with  taste  and 
grace.  It  is  alert,  active,  and  triumphant 
with  splendid  mental  achievements  and 
practical  good  deeds.  And  it  is  the  good- 
ness of  a great  poet — the  poet  of  natural 
beauty,  of  romantic  legend,  of  adventure, 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


275 


of  chivalry,  of  life  in  its  heyday  of  action 
and  its  golden  glow  of  pageantry  and 
pleasure.  It  found  expression,  and  it  wields 
invincible  and  immortal  power,  through  an 
art  whereof  the  charm  is  the  magic  of  sun- 
rise and  sunset,  the  sombre,  holy  silence  of 
mountains,  the  pensive  solitude  of  dusky 
woods,  the  pathos  of  ancient,  ivy -mantled 
ruins,  and  ocean’s  solemn,  everlasting  chant. 
Great  powers  have  arisen  in  English  litera- 
ture ; but  no  romance  has  hushed  the  voice 
of  the  author  of  Waverley , and  no  harp  has 
drowned  the  music  of  the  Minstrel  of  the 
North. 

The  publication  of  a new  book  by  Sir 
Walter  Scott  is  a literary  event  of  great  im- 
portance. The  time  has  been  when  the 
announcement  of  such  a novelty  would 
have  roused  the  reading  public  as  with  the 
sound  of  a trumpet.  That  sensation,  fami- 
liar in  the  early  part  of  the  present  cen- 
tury, is  possible  no  more.  Yet  there  are 
thousands  of  persons  all  over  the  world 
through  whose  hearts  the  thought  of  it 
sends  a thrill  of  joy.  The  illustrious  author 
of  “ Marmion  ” and  of  Waverley  passed  away 
in  1832  : and  now  (1890),  at  the  distance  of 
fifty -eight  years,  his  private  Journal  is  made 
a public  possession.  It  is  the  bestowal  of  a 


276  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

great  privilege  and  benefit.  It  is  like  hearing 
the  voice  of  a deeply-loved  and  long-lamented 
friend  suddenly  speaking  from  beyond  the 
grave. 

In  literary  history  the  position  of  Scott 
is  unique.  A few  other  authors,  indeed, 
might  be  named  toward  whom  the  general 
feeling  was  once  exceedingly  cordial,  but  in 
no  other  case  has  the  feeling  entirely  lasted. 
In  the  case  of  Scott  it  endures  in  undimin- 
ished fervour.  There  are,  of  course,  persons 
to  whom,  his  works  are  not  interesting,  and 
to  whom  his  personality  is  not  signifi- 
cant. Those  persons  are  the  votaries  of 
the  photograph,  who  wish  to  see  upon  the 
printed  page  the  same  sights  that  greet  their 
vision  in  the  streets  and  in  the  houses  to 
which  they  are  accustomed.  But  those  prosy 
persons  constitute  only  a single  class  of  the 
public.  People  in  general  are  impressible 
through  the  romantic  instinct  that  is  a part 
of  human  nature.  To  that  instinct  Scott’s 
writings  were  addressed,  and  also  to  the  heart 
that  commonly  goes  with  it.  The  spirit  that 
responds  to  his  genius  is  universal  and  peren- 
nial. Caprices  of  taste  will  reveal  them- 
selves and  will  vanish  ; fashions  will  rise  and 
will  fall ; but  these  mutations  touch  nothing 
that  is  elemental,  and  they  will  no  more  dis- 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  277 

place  Scott  than  they  will  displace  Shake- 
speare. 

The  Journal  of  Sir  Walter  Scott — valuable 
for  its  copious  variety  of  thought,  humour, 
anecdote,  and  chronicle — is  precious,  most  of 
all,  for  the  confirmatory  light  that  it  casts 
upon  the  character  of  its  writer.  It  has  long 
been  known  that  Scott’s  nature  was  excep- 
tionally noble,  that  his  patience  was  beau- 
tiful, that  his  endurance  was  heroic.  These 
pages  disclose  to  his  votaries  that  he  sur- 
passed even  the  highest  ideal  of  him  that 
their  affectionate  partiality  has  formed.  The 
period  that  it  covers  was  that  of  his  adver- 
sity and  decline.  He  began  it  on  November 
20,  1825,  in  his  town  house,  No.  39  Castle 
Street,  Edinburgh,  and  he  continued  it,  with 
almost  daily  entries — except  for  various 
sadly  significant  breaks,  after  July  1830 — 
until  April  16,  1832.  Five  months  later,  on 
September  21,  he  was  dead.  He  opened 
it  with  the  expression  of  a regret  that  he  had 
not  kept  a regular  journal  during  the  whole 
of  his  life.  He  had  just  seen  some  chapters 
of  Byron’s  vigorous,  breezy,  off-hand  memo- 
randa, and  the  perusal  of  those  inspiriting 
pages  had  revived  in  his  mind  the  long-cher- 
ished, often-deferred  plan  of  keeping  a diary. 
“I  have  myself  lost  recollection,”  he  says, 


278 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


“of  much  that  was  interesting,  and  I have 
deprived  my  family  and  the  public  of  some 
curious  information  by  not  carrying  this  re- 
solution into  effect.”  Having  once  begun 
the  work  he  steadily  persevered  in  it,  and 
evidently  he  found  a comfort  in  its  com- 
panionship. He  wrote  directly,  and  there- 
fore fluently,  setting  down  exactly  what  was 
in  his  mind  from  day  to  day  ; but,  as  he  had 
a well-stored  and  well-ordered  mind,  he 
wrote  with  reason  and  taste,  seldom  about 
petty  matters,  and  never  in  the  strain  of 
insipid  babble  that  egotistical  scribblers 
mistake  for  the  spontaneous  flow  of  nature. 
The  facts  that  he  recorded  were  mostly 
material  facts,  and  the  reflections  that  he 
added,  whether  serious  or  humorous,  were 
important.  Sometimes  a bit  of  history 
would  glide  into  the  current  of  the  chronicle  ; 
sometimes  a fragment  of  a ballad ; some- 
times an  analytic  sketch  of  character — 
subtle,  terse,  clear,  and  obviously  true  ; some- 
times a memory  of  the  past ; sometimes  a 
portraiture  of  incidents  in  the  present ; 
sometimes  a glimpse  of  political  life,  a word 
about  painting,  a reference  to  music  or  the 
stage,  an  anecdote,  a tale  of  travel,  a trait 
of  social  manners,  a precept  upon  conduct, 
or  a thought  upon  religion  and  the  destiny 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


279 


of  mankind.  There  was  no  pretence  of  order, 
and  there  was  no  consciousness  of  an 
audience  ; yet  the  Journal  unconsciously  as- 
sumed a symmetrical  form  ; and  largely  be- 
cause of  the  spontaneous  operation  of  its 
author’s  fine  literary  instinct  it  became  a 
composition  worthy  of  the  best  readers.  It 
is  one  of  the  saddest  and  one  of  the  strongest 
books  ever  written. 

The  original  manuscript  of  this  remarkable 
work  is  contained  in  two  volumes,  bound  in 
vellum,  each  volume  being  furnished  with  a 
steel  clasp  that  can  be  fastened.  The  covers 
are  slightly  tarnished  by  time.  The  paper  is 
yellow  with  age.  The  handwriting  is  fine, 
cramped,  and  often  obscure.  “ This  hand  of 
mine,”  writes  Scott  (vol.  i.  page  386),  “gets 
to  be  like  a kitten’s  scratch,  and  will  require 
much  deciphering,  or,  what  may  be  as  well  for 
the  writer,  cannot  be  deciphered  at  all.  I am 
sure  I cannot  read  it  myself.”  The  first  vol- 
ume is  full  of  writing  ; the  second  about  half 
full.  Toward  the  end  the  record  is  almost 
illegible.  Scott  was  then  at  Rome,  on  that 
melancholy,  mistaken  journey  whereby  it 
had  been  hoped,  but  hoped  in  vain,  that  he 
would  recover  his  health.  The  last  entry 
that  he  made  is  this  unfinished  sentence  : 
“We  slept  reasonably,  but  on  the  next  morn* 


28o 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


ing . ” It  is  not  known  that  he  ever  wrote 

a word  after  that  time.  Lockhart,  who  had 
access  to  his  papers,  made  some  use  of 
the  Journal  in  his  Life  of  Scott , which  is 
one  of  the  best  biographies  in  our  language  ; 
but  the  greater  part  of  it  was  withheld  from 
publication  till  a more  auspicious  time  for 
its  perfect  candour  of  speech.  To  hold  those 
volumes  and  to  look  upon  their  pages — so 
eloquent  of  the  great  author’s  industry,  so 
significant  of  his  character,  so  expressive 
of  his  inmost  soul — was  almost  to  touch 
the  hand  of  the  Minstrel  himself,  to  see 
his  smile,  and  to  hear  his  voice.  Now  that 
they  have  fulfilled  their  purpose,  and  im- 
parted their  inestimable  treasure  to  the 
world,  they  are  restored  to  the  ebony 
cabinet  at  Abbotsford,  there  to  be  trea- 
sured among  the  most  precious  relics  of  the 
past.  “ It  is  the  saddest  house  in  Scot- 
land,” their  editor,  David  Douglas,  said  to 
me,  when  we  were  walking  together  upon 
the  Braid  Hills,  “for  to  my  fancy  every 
stone  in  it  is  cemented  with  tears.”  Sad 
or  glad,  it  is  a shrine  to  which  reverent 
pilgrims  find  their  way  from  every  quar- 
ter of  the  earth,  and  it  will  be  honoured 
and  cherished  for  ever. 

The  great  fame  of  Scott  had  been  acquired 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


281 


by  the  time  he  began  to  write  his  Journal, 
and  it  rested  upon  a broad  foundation  of 
solid  achievement.  He  was  fifty-four  years 
old,  having  been  born  August  15,  1771,  the 
same  year  in  which  Smollett  died.  He  had 
been  an  author  for  about  thirty  years — his 
first  publication,  a translation  of  Burger’s 
“ Lenore,”  having  appeared  in  1796,  the  same 
year  that  was  darkened  by  the  death  of  Robert 
Burns.  His  social  eminence  also  had  been 
established.  He  had  been  sheriff  of  Selkirk 
for  twenty-five  years.  __  He  had  been  for 
twenty  years  a clerk  of  the  Court  of  Session. 
He  had  been  for  five  years  a baronet,  hav- 
ing received  that  rank  from  King  George 
iv.,  who  always  loved  and  admired  him,  in 
1820.  He  had  been  for  fourteen  years  the 
owner  of  Abbotsford,  which  he  bought  in 
1811,  occupied  in  1812,  and  completed  in 
1824.  He  was  yet  to  write  Woodstock  the 
six  tales  called  The  Chronicles  of  the  Canon - 
gate , The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth , Anne  oj 
Geierstein , Count  Robert  of  Paris , Castle 
Dangerous , the  Life  of  Napoleon , and  the 
lovely  Stories  from  the  History  of  Scot- 
land. All  these  works,  together  with  many 
essays  and  reviews,  were  produced  by 
him  between  1825  and  1832,  while  also 
he  was  maintaining  a considerable  corre- 


282 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


spondence,  doing  his  official  duties,  writing 
his  Journal,  and  carrying  a suddenly  imposed 
load  of  debt — which  finally  his  herculean 
labours  paid — amounting  to  £130,000.  But 
between  1805  and  1817  he  had  written  “ The 
Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  ” “ Ballads  and 
Lyrical  Pieces,”  “Marmion,”  “The  Lady 
of  the  Lake,”  “The  Vision  of  Don  Roder- 
ick,” “Rokeby,”  “The  Lord  of  the  Isles,” 
“ The  Field  of  Waterloo,”  and  “ Harold  the 
Dauntless,”  thus  creating  a great  and  diver- 
sified body  of  poetry — then  in  a new  school 
and  a new  style,  in  which,  although  he  has 
often  been  imitated,  he  never  has  been 
equalled.  Between  1814  and  1825  he  had 
likewise  produced  Waverley , Guy  Manner- 
ing.  The  Antiquary , Old  Mortality , The 
Black  Dwarf  \ Rob  Roy , The  Heart  of  Mid- 
lothian, A Legend  of  Montrose , The  Bride 
of  Lammermoor,  Ivanlioe , The  Monastery , 
The  Abbot , Kenilworth , The  Pirate , The 
Fortunes  of  Nigel,  Peveril  of  the  Peak, 
Quentin  Durward,  St.  Ronan’s  Well,  Red- 
gauntlet,  The  Betrothed , and  The  Talisman. 
This  vast  body  of  fiction  was  also  a new 
creation  in  literature,  for  the  English  novel 
prior  to  Scott’s  time  was  the  novel  of 
manners,  as  chiefly  represented  by  the 
works  of  Richardson,  Fielding,  and  Smol- 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  283 

lett.  That  admirable  author  Miss  Jane 
Porter  had,  indeed,  written  the  Scottish 
Chiefs  (1809),  in  which  the  note  of  imagi- 
nation, as  applied  to  the  treatment  of 
historical  fact  and  character,  rings  true 
and  clear  ; and  probably  that  beautiful  book 
should  be  remembered  as  the  beginning  of 
English  historical  romance.  Scott  himself 
said  that  it  was  the  parent,  in  his  mind,  of 
the  Waverley  Novels.  But  he  surpassed  * 
it.  Another  and  perhaps  a deeper  impulse 
to  the  composition  of  those  novels  was  the 
consciousness,  when  Lord  Byron,  by  the  pub- 
lication of  “Childe  Harold”  (the  first  and 
second  cantos,  in  1812),  suddenly  checked 
or  eclipsed  his  immediate  popularity  as  a 
poet,  that  it  would  be  necessary  for  him 
to  strike  out  a new  path.  He  had  begun 
Waverley  in  1805  and  thrown  the  fragment 
aside.  He  took  it  up  again  in  1814,  wrought 
upon  it  for  three  weeks  and  finished  it, 
and  so  began  the  career  of  “the  Great 
Unknown.”  The  history  of  literature  pre- 
sents scarce  a comparable  example  of  such 
splendid  industry  sustained  upon  such  a high 
level  of  endeavour,  animated  by  such  a glori- 
ous genius,  and  resultant  in  such  a noble 
and  beneficent  fruition.  The  life  of  Balzac, 
whom  his  example  inspired,  and  who  may 


284  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

be  accounted  the  greatest  of  French  writers 
since  Voltaire,  is  perhaps  the  only  life  that 
drifts  suggestively  into  the  scholar’s  memory 
as  he  thinks  of  the  prodigious  labours  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott. 

During  the  days  of  his  prosperity  Scott 
maintained  his  manor  at  Abbotsford  and  his 
town-house  in  Edinburgh,  and  frequently 
migrated  from  one  to  the  other,  dispensing 
a liberal  hospitality  at  both.  He  was  not 
one  of  those  authors  who  think  that  there 
is  nothing  in  the  world  but  pen  and  ink. 
He  esteemed  living  to  be  more  important 
than  writing  about  it  and  the  development 
of  the  soul  to  be  a grander  result  than  the 
production  of  a book.  “I  hate  an  author 
that ’s  all  author,  ” said  Byron ; and  in  this 
virtuous  sentiment  Scott  participated.  His 
character  and  conduct,  his  unaffected  mo- 
desty as  to  his  own  works,  his  desire  to  found 
a great  house  and  to  maintain  a stately  rank 
among  the  land-owners  of  his  country,  have, 
for  this  reason,  been  greatly  misunderstood 
by  dull  people.  They  never,  indeed,  would 
have  found  the  least  fault  with  him  if  he  had 
not  become  a bankrupt ; for  the  mouth  of 
every  dunce  is  stopped  by  practical  success. 
When  he  got  into  debt,  though,  it  was  dis- 
covered that  he  ought  to  have  had  a higher 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


285 


ambition  than  the  wish  to  maintain  a place 
among  the  landed  gentry  of  Scotland ; and 
even  though  he  ultimately  paid  his  debts — 
literally  working  himself  to  death  to  do  it — 
he  was  not  forgiven  by  that  class  of  censors  ; 
and  to  some  extent  their  chatter  of  paltry 
disparagement  still  survives.  While  he  was 
rich,  however,  his  halls  were  thronged  with 
fashion,  rank,  and  renown.  Edinburgh,  still 
the  stateliest  city  on  which  the  sun  looks 
down,  must  have  been,  in  the  last  days  of 
George  in.,  a place  of  peculiar  beauty, 
opulence,  and  social  brilliancy.  Scott,  whose 
father  was  a Writer  to  the  Signet,  and  who 
derived  his  descent  from  a good  old  Border 
family — the  Scotts  of  Harden — had,  from 
his  youth,  been  accustomed  to  refined  society 
and  elegant  surroundings.  He  was  born  and 
reared  a gentleman,  and  a gentleman  he 
never  ceased  to  be.  His  father’s  house  was 
in  George  Square  (No.  25),  then  an  aristo- 
cratic quarter,  now  somewhat  fallen  into  the 
sere  and  yellow.  In  that  house,  as  a boy, 
he  saw  some  of  the  most  distinguished  men 
of  the  age.  In  after  years,  when  his  for- 
tunes were  ripe  and  his  fame  as  a poet  had 
been  established,  he  drew  around  himself 
a kindred  class  of  associates.  The  record 
of  his  life  blazes  with  splendid  names.  As 


286 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


a lad  of  fifteen,  in  1786,  he  saw  Burns,  then 
twenty-seven,  and  in  the  heyday  of  fame ; 
and  he  also  saw  Dugald  Stewart,  seventeen 
years  his  senior.  Lord  Jeffrey  was  his  con- 
temporary and  friend — only  two  years  younger 
than  himself.  With  Henry  Mackenzie,  “ the 
Addison  of  Scotland  ” — born  in  the  first  year 
of  the  last  Jacobite  rebellion,  and  therefore 
twenty-six  years  his  senior — he  lived  on 
terms  of  cordial  friendship.  David  Hume, 
who  died  when  Scott  was  but  five  years 
old,  was  one  of  the  great  celebrities  of 
his  early  days ; and  doubtless  Scott  saw 
the  Cal  ton  Hill  when  it  was  as  J ane  Porter 
remembered  it,  “a  vast  green  slope,  with 
no  other  buildings  breaking  the  line  of  its 
smooth  and  magnificent  brow  but  Hume’s 
monument  on  one  part  and  the  astronomical 
observatory  on  the  other.”  He  knew  John 
Home,  the  author  of  “Douglas,”  who  was  his 
senior  by  forty-seven  years  ; and  among  his 
miscellaneous  prose  writings  there  is  an  effec- 
tive review  of  Home’s  works,  which  was 
written  for  the  Quarterly , in  March  1827. 
Among  the  actors  his  especial  friends  were 
John  Philip  Kemble,  Mrs.  Siddons,  the 
elder  Mathews,  John  Bannister,  and  Daniel 
Terry.  He  knew  Yates  also,  and  he  saw 
Miss  Foote,  Fanny  Kemble,  and  the  Mathews 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


287 


of  our  day  as  “a  clever,  rather  forward  lad.” 
Goethe  was  his  correspondent.  Byron  was 
his  friend  and  fervent  admirer.  Wordsworth 
and  Moore  were  among  his  visitors  and 
especial  favourites.  The  aged  Dr.  Adam 
Ferguson  was  one  of  his  intimates.  Hogg, 
when  in  trouble,  always  sought  him,  and 
always  was  helped  and  comforted.  He  was 
the  literary  sponsor  for  Thomas  Campbell. 
He  met  Madame  D’Arblay,  who  was  nine- 
teen years  his  senior,  when  she  was  seventy- 
eight  years  old  ; and  the  author  of  Evelina 
talked  with  him,  in  the  presence  of  old 
Samuel  Rogers,  then  sixty-three,  about  her 
father,  Dr.  Burney,  and  the  days  of  Dr. 
Johnson.  He  was  honoured  with  the  cordial 
regard  of  the  great  Duke  of  Wellington,  a 
contemporary,  being  only  two  years  his 
senior.  He  knew  Croker,  Hay  don,  Chan  trey, 
Landseer,  Sydney  Smith,  and  Theodore 
Hook.  He  read  Vivian  Grey  as  a new  pub- 
lication and  saw  Disraeli  as  a beginner. 
Coleridge  he  met  and  marvelled  at.  Mrs. 
Coutts,  who  had  been  Harriet  Mellon,  the 
singer,  and  who  became  the  Duchess  of  St. 
Albans,  was  a favourite  with  him.  He  knew 
and  liked  that  savage  critic  William  Gifford. 
His  relations  with  Sir  Humphry  Davy, 
seven  years  his  senior,  were  those  of  kind- 


288 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


ness.  He  had  a great  regard  for  Lord 
Castlereagh  and  Lord  Melville.  He  liked 
Robert  Southey,  and  he  cherished  a deep 
affection  for  the  poet  Crabbe,  who  was 
twenty-three  years  older  than  himself,  and 
who  died  in  the  same  year.  Of  Sir  George 
Beaumont,  the  fond  friend  and  wise  patron 
of  Wordsworth,  who  died  in  February  1827, 
Scott  wrote  that  he  was  “ by  far  the  most 
sensible  and  pleasing  man  I ever  knew.” 
Amid  a society  such  as  is  indicated  by  these 
names  Scott  passed  his  life.  The  brilliant 
days  of  the  Canongate  indeed  were  gone, 
when  all  those  wynds  and  closes  that  fringe 
the  historic  avenue  from  the  Castle  to  Holy- 
rood  were  as  clean  as  wax,  and  when  the 
loveliest  ladies  of  Scotland  dwelt  amongst 
them,  and  were  borne  in  their  chairs  from 
one  house  of  festivity  to  another.  But  New 
Street,  once  the  home  of  Lord  Karnes,  still 
retained  some  touch  of  its  ancient  finery. 
St.  John  Street,  where  once  lived  Lord 
Monboddo  and  his  beautiful  daughter,  Miss 
Burnet  (immortalised  by  Burns),  and  where 
(at  No.  10)  Ballantyne  often  convoked  ad- 
mirers of  the  unknown  author  of  Waverley, 
was  still  a cleanly  place.  Alison  Square, 
George  Square,  Buccleuch  Place,  and  kindred 
quarters  were  still  tenanted  by  the  polished 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


289 


classes  of  the  stately  old-time  society  of 
Edinburgh.  The  movement  northerly  had 
begun,  but  as  yet  it  was  inconsiderable. 
In  those  old  drawing-rooms  Scott  was  an 
habitual  visitor,  as  also  he  was  in  many 
of  the  contiguous  county  manors — in  Seton 
House,  and  Pinkie  House,  and  Blackford, 
and  Ravelstone,  and  Craigcrook,  and  Caro- 
line Park,  and  wherever  else  the  intellect, 
beauty,  rank,  and  fashion  of  the  Scottish 
capital  assembled  ; and  it  is  certain  that  after 
his  marriage,  in  December  1797,  with  Miss 
Charlotte  Margaret  Carpenter  the  scenes  of 
hospitality  and  of  elegant  festival  were 
numerous  and  gay,  and  were  peopled  with 
all  that  was  brightest  in  the  ancient  city, 
beneath  his  roof-tree  in  Castle  Street  and 
his  turrets  of  Abbotsford. 

There  came  a time,  however,  when  the 
fabric  of  Scott’s  fortunes  was  to  be  shat- 
tered and  his  imperial  genius  bowed  into 
the  dust.  He  had  long  been  a business 
associate  with  Constable,  his  publisher,  and 
also  with  Ballantyne,  his  printer.  The 
publishing  business  failed  and  they  were 
ruined  together.  It  has  long  been  customary 
to  place  the  blame  for  that  catastrophe  on 
Constable  alone.  Mr.  Douglas,  who  has 
edited  the  Journal  with  characteristic  dis- 
T 


290  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

cretion  and  taste,  records  his  opinion  that 
“the  three  parties  — printer,  publisher, 
and  author — were  equal  sharers  in  the  im- 
prudences that  led  to  the  disaster  ; ” and  he 
directs  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  charge 
that  Constable  ruined  Scott  was  not  made 
during  the  lifetime  of  either.  It  matters 
little  now  in  what  way  the  ruin  was  induced. 
Mismanagement  caused  it,  and  not  misdeed. 
There  was  a blunder,  but  there  was  no 
fraud.  The  honour  of  all  the  men  con- 
cerned stands  vindicated  before  the  world. 
Moreover,  the  loss  was  retrieved  and  the 
debt  was  paid — Scott’s  share  of  it  in  full  : 
the  other  shares  in  part.  It  is  to  the  period 
of  this  ordeal  that  Scott’s  Journal  mainly 
relates.  Great  though  he  had  been  in  pro- 
sperity, he  was  to  show  himself  greater  amid 
the  storms  of  disaster  and  affliction.  The 
earlier  pages  of  the  diary  are  cheerful, 
vigorous,  and  confident.  The  mind  of  the 
writer  is  in  no  alarm.  Presently  the  sky 
changes  and  the  tempest  breaks  ; and  from 
that  time  onward  you  behold  a spectacle  of 
indomitable  will,  calm  resolution,  inflexible 
purpose,  patient  endurance,  steadfast  indus- 
try, and  productive  genius  that  is  simply 
sublime.  Many  facts  of  living  interest  and 
many  gems  of  subtle  thought  and  happy 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


291 


phrase  are  found  in  his  daily  record.  The 
observations  on  immortality  are  in  a fine 
strain.  The  remarks  on  music,  on  dramatic 
poetry,  on  the  operation  of  the  mental 
faculties,  on  painting,  and  on  national  char- 
acteristics, are  freighted  with  suggestive 
thought.  But  the  noble  presence  of  the 
man  overshadows  even  his  best  words.  He 
lost  his  fortune  in  December  1825.  His  wife 
died  in  May  1826.  On  the  pages  that  im- 
mediately follow  his  note  of  this  bereave- 
ment Scott  has  written  occasional  words 
that  no  one  can  read  unmoved,  and  that 
no  one  who  has  suffered  can  read  without 
a pang  that  is  deeper  than  tears. 

But  his  spirit  was  slow  to  break.  “ Duty 
to  God  and  to  my  children,”  he  said,  “ must 
teach  me  patience.”  Once  he  speaks  of 
‘ ‘ the  loneliness  of  these  watches  of  the 
night.”  Not  until  his  debts  were  paid  and 
his  duties  fulfilled  would  that  great  soul 
yield.  “ I may  be  bringing  on  some  serious 
disease,”  he  remarks,  “by  working  thus 
hard  ; if  I had  once  justice  done  to  other 
folks,  I do  not  much  care,  only  I would  not 
like  to  suffer  long  pain.  ” A little  later  the 
old  spirit  shows  itself  : “ I do  not  like  to 
have  it  thought  that  there  is  any  way  in 
which  I can  be  beaten Let  us  use  the  time 


292  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

and  faculties  which  God  has  left  us,  and 
trust  futurity  to  His  guidance.  ...  I want 
to  finish  my  task,  and  then  good-night.  I 
will  never  relax  my  labour  in  these  affairs 
either  for  fear  of  pain  or  love  of  life.  I will 
die  a free  man,  if  hard  working  will  do  it.  . . . 
My  spirits  are  neither  low  nor  high — grave, 
I think,  and  quiet — a complete  twilight  of 
the  mind.  . . . God  help — but  rather  God 
bless — man  must  help  himself.  . . . The 
best  is,  the  long  halt  will  arrive  at  last  and 
cure  all.  ...  It  is  my  dogged  humour  to 
yield  little  to  external  circumstances.  . . . 
I shall  never  see  the  threescore  and  ten, 
and  shall  be  summed  up  at  a discount.  No 
help  for  it,  and  no  matter  either.”  In  the 
mood  of  mingled  submission  and  resolve 
denoted  by  these  sentences  (which  occur  at 
long  intervals  in  the  story),  he  wrought  at 
his  task  until  it  was  finished.  By  Woodstock 
he  earned  £8000  ; by  the  Life  of  Napoleon 
£18,000  ; by  other  writings  still  other  sums. 
The  details  of  his  toil  appear  day  by  day  in 
these  quiet  pages,  tragic  through  all  their 
simplicity.  He  was  a heart-broken  man 
from  the  hour  when  his  wife  died,  but  he  sus- 
tained himself  by  force  of  will  and  sense  of 
honour,  and  he  endured  and  worked  till  the 
end  without  a murmur  ; and  when  he  had 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  293 

done  his  task  he  laid  down  his  pen  and 
died. 

The  lesson  of  Scott’s  Journal  is  the  most 
important  lesson  that  experience  can  teach. 
It  is  taught  in  two  words — honour  and  duty. 
Nothing  is  more  obvious,  from  the  nature 
and  environment  and  the  consequent  condi- 
tion of  the  human  race,  than  the  fact  that 
this  world  is  not,  and  was  not  intended  to 
be,  a place  of  settled  happiness.  All  human 
beings  have  troubles,  and  as  the  years  pass 
away  those  troubles  become  more  numerous, 
more  heavy,  and  more  hard  to  bear.  The 
ordeal  through  which  humanity  is  pass- 
ing is  an  ordeal  of  discipline  for  spiritual 
development.  To  live  in  honour,  to  labour 
with  steadfast  industry,  and  to  endure  writli 
cheerful  patience  is  to  be  victorious.  What- 
ever in  literature  will  illustrate  this  doc- 
trine, and  whatever  in  human  example  will 
commend  and  enforce  it,  is  of  transcendent 
value  ; and  that  value  is  inherent  in  the 
example  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 


XXL 


ELEGIAC  MEMORIALS. 

ONE  denotement — among  many  — of  a 
genial  change,  a relaxation  of  the  old 
ecclesiastical  austerity  long  prevalent  in  Scot- 
land, is  perceptible  in  the  lighter  character 
of  her  modern  sepulchral  monuments.  In  the 
old  churchyard  of  St.  Michael,  at  Dumfries, 
the  burial-place  of  Burns,  there  is  a hideous, 
dismal  mass  of  misshapen,  weather-beaten 
masonry,  the  mere  aspect  of  which — before 
any  of  its  gruesome  inscriptions  are  read — 
is  a rebuke  to  hope  and  an  alarm  to  despair. 
Thus  the  religionists  of  old  tried  to  make 
death  terrible.  Much  of  this  same  order  of 
abhorrent  architecture — the  ponderous  ex- 
ponent of  immitigable  woe — may  be  found 
in  the  old  Greyfriars  Churchyard  in  Edin- 
burgh, and  in  that  of  the  Canongate.  But 
the  pilgrim  to  the  Dean  Cemetery  and  the 
Warriston — both  comparatively  modern,  and 
beautifully  situated  at  different  points  on  the 

294 


ELEGIAC  MEMORIALS. 


295 


north  side  of  the  Water  of  Leith — finds  them 
adorned  with  every  grace  that  can  hallow 
the  repose  of  the  dead,  or  soothe  the  grief, 
or  mitigate  the  fear,  or  soften  the  bitter 
resentment  of  the  living.  Hope,  and  not 
despair,  is  the  spirit  of  the  new  epoch  in 
religion,  and  it  is  hope  not  merely  for  a sect 
but  for  all  mankind. 

The  mere  physical  loveliness  of  those 
cemeteries  may  well  tempt  you  to  explore 
them ; but  no  one  will  neglect  them  who 
cares  for  the  storied  associations  of  the  past. 
Walking  in  the  Dean,  on  an  afternoon 
half-cloudy  and  half-bright,  when  the  large 
trees  that  guard  its  western  limit  and  all 
the  masses  of  foliage  in  the  dark  ravine  of 
the  Leith  were  softly  rustling  in  the  balmy 
summer  wind,  while  overhead  and  far 
around  the  solemn  cawing  of  the  rooks 
mingled  sleepily  with  the  twitter  of  the 
sparrows,  I thought,  as  I paced  the  sunlit 
aisles,  that  Nature  could  nowhere  show 
a scene  of  sweeter  peace.  In  this  gentle 
solitude  has  been  laid  to  its  everlasting  rest 
all  that  could  die  of  some  of  the  greatest 
leaders  of  thought  in  modern  Scotland.  It 
was  no  common  experience  to  muse  beside 
the  tomb  of  Francis  Jeffrey — the  formidable 
Lord  Jeffrey  of  The  Edinburgh  Review.  He 


29b  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

lies  buried  near  the  great  wall  on  the 
western  side  of  the  Dean  Cemetery,  with  his 
wife  beside  him.  A flat,  oblong  stone  tomb, 
imposed  upon  a large  stone  platform  and 
overshadowed  with  tall  trees,  marks  the 
place,  on  one  side  of  which  is  written  that 
once-famous  and  dreaded  name,  now  spoken 
with  indifference  or  not  spoken  at  all : 
“Francis  Jeffrey.  Born  Oct.  23,  1773. 
Died  Jan.  25,  1850.”  On  the  end  of  the 
tomb  is  a medallion  portrait  of  Jeffrey,  in 
bronze.  It  is  a profile,  and  it  shows  a 
symmetrical  head,  a handsome  face — severe, 
refined,  frigid — and  altogether  it  is  the 
denotement  of  a personality  remarkable  for 
the  faculty  of  taste  and  the  instinct  of 
decorum,  though  not  for  creative  power. 
Close  by  Lord  Jeffrey,  a little  to  the  south, 
are  buried  Sir  Archibald  Alison,  the  his- 
torian of  Europe,  and  Henry  Cockburn,  the 
great  jurist.  Combe,  the  philosopher,  rests 
near  the  south  front  of  the  wall  that  bisects 
this  cemetery  from  east  to  west.  Not  far 
from  the  memorials  of  these  famous  persons 
is  a shaft  of  honour  to  Lieutenant  John 
Irving,  who  was  one  of  the  companions  of 
Sir  J ohn  Franklin,  and  who  perished  amid 
the  Polar  ice  in  “King  William’s  Land”  in 
1848-’49. 


ELEGIAC  MEMORIALS. 


297 


In  another  part  of  the  ground  a tall  cross 
commemorates  David  Scott,  the  painter 
(1807-1849),  presenting  a superb  effigy  of  his 
head,  in  one  of  the  most  animated  pieces 
of  bronze  that  have  copied  human  life. 
Against  the  eastern  wall,  on  the  terrace 
overlooking  the  ravine  and  the  rapid  Water 
of  Leith,  stands  the  tombstone  of  John 
Blackwood,  ‘ ‘ Editor  of  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine for  thirty-three  years  : Died  at  Strath- 
tyrum,  29th  Oct.  1879.  Aged  60.”  This 
inscription,  cut  upon  a broad  white  marble, 
with  scroll-work  at  the  base,  and  set  against 
the  wall,  is  surmounted  with  a coat  of  arms, 
in  gray  stone,  bearing  the  motto,  “Per  vias 
rectas.”  Many  other  eminent  names  may 
be  read  in  this  garden  of  death ; but  most 
interesting  of  all,  and  those  that  most  of  all 
I sought,  are  the  names  of  Wilson  and 
Aytoun.  Those  worthies  were  buried  close 
together,  almost  in  the  centre  of  the  ceme- 
tery. The  grave  of  the  great  ‘ * Christopher 
North  ” is  marked  by  a simple  monolith  of 
Aberdeen  granite,  beneath  a tree,  and  it 
bears  only  this  inscription  : “John  Wilson, 
Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy.  Born  18th 
of  May,  1785.  Died  3d  April,  1854.”  Far 
more  elaborate  is  the  white  marble  monu- 
ment— a square  tomb,  with  carvings  of  re- 


298  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

cessed  Gothic  windows  on  its  sides,  support- 
ing a tall  cross — erected  to  the  memory  of 
Aytoun  and  of  his  wife,  who  was  Wilson’s 
daughter.  The  inscriptions  tell  their  suffi- 
cient story:  ‘‘Jane  Emily  Wilson,  beloved 
wife  of  William  Edmondstoune  Aytoun. 
Obiit  15  April,  1859.”  “Here  is  laid  to  rest 
William  Edmondstoune  Aytoun,  D.C.L., 
Oxon.,  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  English 
Literature  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh. 
Sheriff  of  Orkney  and  Zetland.  Born  at 
Edinburgh,  21st  June,  1813.  Died  at  Black- 
hills,  Elgin,  4th  August,  1865.  ‘Waiting 
for  the  coming  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.’ 
1 Cor.  i.  7.”  So  they  sleep,  the  poets,  wits, 
and  scholars  that  were  once  so  bright  in 
genius,  so  gay  in  spirit,  so  splendid  in 
achievement,  so  vigorous  in  affluent  and 
brilliant  life  ! It  is  the  old  story,  and  it 
teaches  the  old  moral. 

Warriston,  not  more  beautiful  than  Dean, 
is  perhaps  more  beautiful  in  situation ; cer- 
tainly it  commands  a more  beautiful  pro- 
spect. You  will  visit  Warriston  for  the 
sake  of  Alexander  Smith  ; for  you  have  not 
forgotten  the  Life  Drama , the  City  Poems , 
Elwin  of  Deira , Alfred  Hag  art's  Household , 
and  A Summer  in  S/cye.  He  lies  in  the 
north-east  corner  of  the  ground,  at  the  foot 


ELEGIAC  MEMORIALS. 


299 


of  a large  Iona  cross  which  is  bowered  by  a 
chestnut  tree.  Above  him  the  green  sod  is 
like  a carpet  of  satin.  The  cross  is  thickly 
carved  with  laurel,  thistle,  and  holly,  and  it 
bears  upon  its  front  the  face  of  the  poet,  in 
bronze,  and  the  harp  that  betokens  his  art. 
It  is  a bearded  face,  having  small,  refined 
features,  a slightly  pouted,  sensitive  mouth, 
and  being  indicative  more  of  nervous  sensi- 
bility than  of  rugged  strength.  The  inscrip- 
tion gives  simply  his  name  and  dates  : “Alex- 
ander Smith,  Poet  and  Essayist.  Born  at 
Kilmarnock,  31st  December,  1829.  Died  at 
Wardie,  5th  January,  1867.  Erected  by 
some  of  his  personal  Friends.”  Standing  by 
his  grave,  at  the  foot  of  this  cross,  you  can 
gaze  straight  away  southward  to  Arthur’s 
Seat,  and  behold  the  whole  line  of  imperial 
Edinburgh  at  a glance,  from  the  Calton  Hill 
to  the  Castle.  It  is  such  a spot  as  he  would 
have  chosen  for  his  sepulchre — face  to  face 
with  the  city  that  he  so  dearly  loved.  Near 
him  on  the  east  wall  appears  a large  slab  of 
Aberdeen  granite,  to  mark  the  grave  of  still 
another  Scottish  worthy,  “James  Ballantine, 
Poet.  Born  11th  June,  1808.  Died  18th 
Dec.,  1877.”  And  midway  along  the  slope 
of  the  northern  terrace,  a little  eastward  of 
the  chapel,  under  a freestone  monolith  bear* 


300  GKAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

ing  the  butterfly  that  is  Nature’s  symbol  of 
immortality,  you  will  see  the  grave  of  “Sir 
James  Young  Simpson,  Bart.,  M.D.,  D.C.L. 
Born  1811.  Died  1870.”  And  if  you  are 
weary  of  thinking  about  the  evanescence  of 
the  poets  you  can  reflect  that  there  was  no 
exemption  from  the  common  lot  even  for  one 
of  the  greatest  physical  benefactors  of  the 
human  race. 

The  oldest  and  the  most  venerable 
and  mysterious  of  the  cemeteries  of  Edin- 
burgh is  that  of  the  Greyfriars.  Irregular 
in  shape  and  uneven  in  surface,  it  encircles 
its  famous  old  church,  in  the  storied  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  West  Bow,  and  is  itself 
hemmed  in  with  many  buildings.  More 
than  four  centuries  ago  this  was  the 
garden  of  the  Monastery  of  the  Greyfriars, 
founded  by  James  i.  of  Scotland,  and 
thus  it  gets  its  name.  The  monastery 
disappeared  long  ago : the  garden  was 

turned  into  a graveyard  in  the  time  of 
Queen  Mary  Stuart,  and  by  her  order. 
The  building,  called  the  Old  Church,  dates 
back  to  1612,  but  it  was  burnt  in  1845  and 
subsequently  restored.  Here  the  National 
Covenant  was  subscribed  (1638)  by  the 
lords  and  by  the  people,  and  in  this 
doubly  consecrated  ground  are  laid  the 


ELEGIAC  MEMORIALS. 


301 


remains  of  many  of  those  heroic  Covenanters 
who  subsequently  suffered  death  for  con- 
science and  their  Church.  There  is  a large 
book  of  “ The  Epitaphs  and  Monumental 
Inscriptions  in  Greyfriars  Churchyard,” 
made  by  James  Brown,  keeper  of  the 
grounds,  and  published  in  1867.  That 
record  does  not  pretend  to  be  complete,  and 
yet  it  mentions  no  less  than  2271  persons 
who  are  sepulchred  in  this  place.  Among 
those  sleepers  are  Duncan  Forbes  of  Cul- 
loden  ; Robert  Mylne,  who  built  a part  of 
Holyrood  Palace  ; Sir  George  Mackenzie, 
the  persecutor  of  the  Covenanters ; Car- 
stares,  the  adviser  of  King  William  in.  ; 
Sir  Adam  Ferguson,  Henry  Mackenzie ; 
Robertson  and  Tytler  the  historians ; Sir 
Walter  Scott’s  father,  and  several  of  the 
relatives  of  Mrs.  Siddons.  Captain  John 
Porteous,  who  was  hanged  in  the  Grass- 
market  by  riotous  citizens  of  Edinburgh,  on 
the  night  of  September  7,  1736,  and  whose 
story  is  so  vividly  told  in  The  Heart  of  Mid - 
lothian , was  buried  in  the  Greyfriars 
Churchyard,  “three  dble.  pace  from  the 
S.  corner  Chalmers’  tomb  ” [1736].  James 
Brown’s  record  of  the  churchyard  contains 
various  particulars,  quoted  from  the  old 
church  register.  Of  William  Robertson, 


302 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


minister  of  the  parish,  who  died  in  1745, 
we  read  that  he  “lyes  near  the  tree  next 
Blackwood’s  ground.”  “Mr.  Allan  Ram- 
say,” says  the  same  quaint  chronicle,  “lies 
5 dble.  paces  southwest  the  blew  stone  : 
A poet:  old  age:  Buried  9th  January  1758.” 
Christian  Ross,  his  wife,  who  preceded 
the  aged  bard  by  fifteen  years,  lies  in 
the  same  grave.  Sir  Walter  Scott’s  father 
was  laid  there  on  April  18,  1799,  and 
his  daughter  Anne  was  placed  beside  him 
in  1801.  In  a letter  addressed  to  his 
brother  Thomas,  in  1819,  Sir  Walter  wrote  : 
“When  poor  Jack  was  buried  in  the 
Greyfriars  Churchyard,  where  my  father 
and  Anne  lie,  I thought  their  graves  more 
encroached  upon  than  I liked  to  witness.” 
The  remains  of  the  Regent  Morton  were,  it 
is  said,  wrapped  in  a cloak  and  secretly 
buried  there  at  night — the  2d  of  June  1581 — 
low  down  toward  the  northern  wall.  The 
supposed  grave  of  the  superb  Latin  poet 
George  Buchanan  (“the elegant  Buchanan,” 
Dr.  Johnson  calls  him)  is  not  distant  from 
this  spot  ; and  in  the  old  church  may  be 
seen  a beautiful  window,  a triple  lancet,  in 
the  south  aisle,  placed  there  to  commemo- 
rate that  illustrious  author. 

Hugh  Miller  and  Dr.  Chalmers  were  laid 


.ELEGIAC  MEMORIALS.  303 

in  the  Grange  Cemetery,  which  is  in  the 
southern  part  of  the  city,  near  Morningside. 
Adam  Smith  is  commemorated  by  a heavy 
piece  of  masonry,  over  his  dust,  at  the  south 
end  of  the  Canongate  Churchyard,  and 
Dugald  Stewart  by  a ponderous  tomb  at  the 
north  end  of  it,  where  he  was  buried,  as 
also  by  the  monument  on  the  Calton  Hill. 
It  is  to  see  Ferguson’s  gravestone,  however, 
that  the  pilgrim  explores  the  Canongate 
Churchyard — and  a dreary  place  it  is  for 
the  last  rest  of  a poet.  Robert  Burns 
placed  the  stone,  and  on  the  back  of  it  is 
inscribed  : 4 4 By  special  grant  of  the  mana- 
gers to  Robert  Burns,  who  erected  this  stone, 
this  burial-place  is  to  remain  for  ever  sacred 
to  Robert  Ferguson.”  That  poet  was  born 
September  5,  1751,  and  died  October  16, 
1774.  These  lines,  written  by  Burns,  with 
an  intentional  reminiscence  of  Gray,  whose 
elegy  he  fervently  admired,  are  his  epitaph — 

44  No  sculptured  marble  here,  nor  pompous  lay, 
No  storied  urn  nor  animated  bust— 

This  simple  stone  directs  pale  Scotia’s  way 
To  pour  her  sorrows  o’er  her  Poet’s  dust.” 

One  of  the  greatest  minds  of  Scotland, 
and  indeed  of  the  world,  was  David  Hume, 
who  could  think  more  clearly  and  express 


304  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

his  thoughts  more  precisely  and  cogently 
upon  great  subjects  than  almost  any  meta- 
physician of  our  English-speaking  race.  His 
tomb  is  in  the  old  Calton  Cemetery,  close 
by  the  prison,  a grim  Roman  tower,  pre- 
dominant over  the  Waverley  Vale  and  visible 
from  every  part  of  it.  This  structure  is 
open  to  the  sky,  and  within  it  and  close 
around  its  interior  edge  nine  melancholy 
bushes  are  making  a forlorn  effort  to  grow 
in  the  stony  soil  that  covers  the  great  his- 
torian’s dust.  There  is  an  urn  above  the 
door  of  this  mausoleum,  and  surmounting 
the  urn  is  this  inscription  : “ David  Hume, 
born  April  26th,  1711.  Died  August  25th, 
1776.  Erected  in  memory  of  him  in  1778.” 
In  another  part  of  this  ground  you  may  find 
the  sepulchre  of  Sir  Walter  Scott’s  friend 
and  publisher,  Archibald  Constable,  born 
24th  February  1774,  died  21st  July  1827. 
Several  priests  were  roaming  over  the  ceme- 
tery when  I saw  it,  making  its  dismal  aspect 
still  more  dismal  by  that  furtive  aspect 
which  often  marks  the  ecclesiastic  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church. 

Another  great  man,  Thomas  de  Quincey, 
is  buried  in  the  old  churchyard  of  the 
West  Church,  that  lies  in  the  valley  just 
beneath  the  west  front  of  the  crag  of 


ELEGIAC  MEMORIALS. 


305 


Edinburgh  Castle.  I went  to  that  spot  on 
a bright  and  lovely  autumn  evening.  The 
place  was  deserted,  except  for  the  pre- 
sence of  a gardener,  to  whom  I made  my 
request  that  he  would  guide  me  to  the 
grave  of  De  Quincey.  It  is  an  incon- 
spicuous place,  marked  by  a simple  slab  of 
dark  stone,  set  against  the  wall,  in  an  angle 
of  the  enclosure,  on  a slight  acclivity.  As 
you  look  upward  from  this  spot  you  see  the 
grim,  magnificent  castle  frowning  on  its 
precipitous  height.  The  grave  was  covered 
thick  with  grass,  and  in  a narrow  trench  of 
earth  cut  in  the  sod  around  it  many  pansies 
and  marigolds  were  in  bloom.  Upon  the 
gravestone  is  written  : “Sacred  to  the  me- 
mory of  Thomas  de  Quincey,  who  was  born 
at  Greenhay,  near  Manchester,  August  15th, 
1785,  and  died  in  Edinburgh,  December  8th, 
1859.  And  of  Margaret,  his  wife,  who  died 
August  7,  1837.”  Just  over  the  honoured 
head  of  the  illustrious  sleeper  were  two 
white  daisies  peeping  through  the  green  ; 
one  of  which  I thought  it  not  a sin  to  take 
away — for  it  is  the  symbol  at  once  of  peace 
and  hope,  and  therefore  a sufficient  embodi- 
ment of  the  best  that  death  can  teach. 


u 


XXII. 


SCOTTISH  PICTURES 

STRONACHLACHER,  Loch  Katrine, 
September  1,  1890. — No  one  needs  to 
be  told  that  the  Forth  Bridge  is  a wonder. 
All  the  world  knows  it,  and  knows  that  the 
art  of  the  engineer  has  here  achieved  its 
masterpiece.  The  bridge  is  not  beautiful, 
whether  viewed  from  afar  or  close  at  hand. 
You  see  it — or  some  part  of  it — from  every 
height  to  which  you  mount  in  Edinburgh. 
It  is  visible  from  the  Calton  Hill,  from  the 
Nelson  Column,  from  the  Scott  Monument, 
from  the  ramparts  of  the  Castle,  from  Salis- 
bury Crags,  from  the  Braid  Hills,  and  of 
course  from  the  eminence  of  Arthur’s  Seat. 
Other  objects  of  interest  there  are  which 
seek  the  blissful  shade,  but  the  Forth  Bridge 
is  an  object  of  interest  that  insists  upon 
being  seen.  The  visitor  to  the  shores  of 
the  Forth  need  not  mount  any  height  in 
order  to  perceive  it,  for  all  along  those 

306 


SCOTTISH  PICTURES. 


307 


shores,  from  Dirleton  to  Leith  and  from  Elie 
to  Burntisland,  it  frequently  comes  into 
the  picture.  While,  however,  it  is  not 
beautiful,  it  impresses  the  observer  with  a 
sense  of  colossal  magnificence.  It  is  a more 
triumphant  structure  even  than  the  Eiffel 
Tower,  and  it  predominates  over  the  vision 
and  the  imagination  by  the  same  audacity  of 
purpose  and  the  same  consummate  fulfilment 
which  mark  that  other  marvel  and  establish 
it  in  universal  admiration.  Crossing  the 
bridge  early  this  morning  I deeply  felt  its 
superb  potentiality,  and  was  charmed  like- 
wise with  its  pictorial  effect.  That  effect  is 
no  doubt  due  in  part  to  its  accessories.  Both 
ways  the  broad  expanse  of  the  Forth  was 
visible  for  many  miles.  It  was  a still  morn- 
ing, overcast  and  mournful.  There  was  a 
light  breeze  from  the  south-east, — the  air 
at  that  elevation  being  as  sweet  as  new  milk. 
Beneath,  far  down,  the  surface  of  the  steel- 
gray  water  was  crinkled  like  the  scaly  back 
of  a fish.  Midway  a little  island  rears  its 
spine  of  rock  out  of  the  stream.  Westward 
at  some  distance  rises  a crag,  on  which  is 
a tiny  lighthouse-tower,  painted  red.  The 
long,  graceful  stone  piers  that  stretch  into 
the  Forth  at  this  point, — which  are  break- 
waters to  form  a harbour, — and  all  the  little 


;o8 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


gray  houses  of  Queensferry,  Inverkeithing, 
and  the  adjacent  villages  looked  like  the  toy 
buildings  which  are  the  playthings  of  chil- 
dren. A steamboat  was  making  her  way 
up  the  river,  while  near  the  shores  were 
many  small  boats  swinging  at  their  moorings, 
for  the  business  of  the  day  was  not  yet 
begun.  Over  this  scene  the  scarce-risen  sun, 
much  obscured  by  dull  clouds,  cast  a faint 
rosy  light — and  even  while  the  picture  was 
at  its  best  we  glided  away  from  it  into  the 
storied  land  of  Fife. 

In  former  days  the  traveller  to  Stirling 
commonly  went  by  the  way  of  Linlithgow, 
which  is  the  place  where  Mary  Stuart  was 
born,  and  he  was  all  the  more  prompted  to 
think  of  that  enchanting  woman  because  he 
usually  caught  a glimpse  of  the  ruins  of  Nid- 
dry  Castle — one  of  the  houses  of  her  faithful 
Lord  Seton — at  which  she  rested,  on  the  ro- 
mantic and  memorable  occasion  of  her  flight 
from  Loch  Leven.  Now,  since  the  Forth 
Bridge  has  been  opened,  the  most  direct  route 
to  Stirling  is  by  Dunfermline.  And  this  is  a 
gain,  for  Dunfermline  is  one  of  the  most 
interesting  places  in  Scotland.  That  Mal- 
colm of  whom  we  catch  a glimpse  when  we 
see  a representation  of  Shakespeare’s  tragedy 
of  “ Macbeth  ” had  a royal  castle  there  nine 


SCOTTISH  PICTURES. 


309 


hundred  years  ago,  of  which  a fragment 
still  remains  ; and  on  a slope  of  the  Forth, 
a few  miles  west  from  Dunfermline,  the 
vigilant  antiquarian  has  fixed  the  site  of 
Macduff’s  castle,  where  Lady  Macduff  and 
her  children  were  slaughtered  by  the  tyrant. 
In  the  ancient  church  at  Dunfermline,  the 
Church  of  the  Holy  Trinity — devastated  at 
the  Reformation,  but  since  restored — you 
may  see  the  great  blue-grey  stone  which 
covers  the  tomb  of  Malcolm  and  of  Mar- 
garet, his  queen — an  angel  among  women 
when  she  lived,  and  worthy  to  be  remem- 
bered now  as  the  saint  that  her  Church  has 
made  her.  The  body  of  Margaret,  who  died 
at  Edinburgh  Castle,  November  16,  1093, 
was  secretly  and  hastily  conveyed  to  Dun- 
fermline, and  there  buried,  — Edinburgh 
Castle  (“  The  Maiden  Castle”  it  was  then 
called)  being  assailed  by  her  husband’s 
brother,  Donald  Bane.  The  remains  of  this 
noble  and  devoted  woman,  however,  do 
not  rest  in  that  tomb,  for  long  afterward, 
at  the  Reformation,  they  were  taken  away, 
and  after  various  wanderings  were  enshrined 
at  the  Church  of  St.  Laurence  in  the 
Escurial.  I had  often  stood  in  the  little 
chapel  that  this  good  queen  founded  in 
Edinburgh  Castle, — a place  which  they 


3io 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


desecrate  now,  by  using  it  as  a shop  for  the 
sale  of  pictures  and  memorial  trinkets, — 
and  I was  soon  to  stand  in  the  ruins  of 
Saint  Oran’s  Chapel  in  far  Iona,  which  also 
was  built  by  her  ; and  so  it  was  with  many 
reverent  thoughts  of  an  exalted  soul  and  a 
beneficent  life  that  I saw  the  great  dark 
tower  of  Dunfermline  Church  vanish  in  the 
distance.  At  Stirling  the  rain,  which  had 
long  been  lowering,  came  down  in  floods,  and 
after  that  for  many  hours  there  was  genuine 
Scotch  weather  and  a copious  abundance  of 
it.  This  also  is  an  experience,  and,  al- 
though that  superb  drive  over  the  mountain 
from  Aberfoyle  to  Loch  Katrine  was  marred 
by  the  wet,  I was  well  pleased  to  see  the 
Trosachs  country  in  storm,  which  I had  be- 
fore seen  in  sunshine.  It  is  a land  of  infinite 
variety,  and  lovely  even  in  tempest.  The 
majesty  of  the  rocky  heights  ; the  bleak  and 
barren  loneliness  of  the  treeless  hills ; the 
many  thread-like  waterfalls  which,  seen 
afar  off,  are  like  rivulets  of  silver  frozen  into 
stillness  on  the  mountain-sides ; the  occa- 
sional apparition  of  precipitous  peaks,  over 
which  presently  are  driven  the  white 
streamers  of  the  mist — all  these  are  strik- 
ing elements  of  a scene  which  blends  into 
the  perfection  of  grace  the  qualities  of 


SCOTTISH  PICTURES. 


II 


gentle  beauty  and  wild  romance.  Ben 
Lomond  in  the  west  and  Ben  Venue  and 
Ben  Ledi  in  the  north  were  indistinct,  and 
so  was  Ben  A’an  in  its  nearer  cloud  ; but 
a brisk  wind  had  swept  the  mists  from  Loch 
Drunkie,  and  under  a black  sky  the  smooth 
surface  of  “ lovely  Loch  Achray”  shone 
like  a liquid  diamond.  An  occasional  grouse 
rose  from  the  ferns  and  quickly  winged  its 
way  to  cover.  A few  cows,  wet  but  indiffe- 
rent, composed,  and  contented,  were  now 
and  then  visible,  grazing  in  that  desert ; 
while  high  up  on  the  crags  appeared  many 
sure-footed  sheep,  the  inevitable  inhabitants 
of  those  solitudes.  So  onward,  breathing 
the  sweet  air  that  here  was  perfumed  by 
miles  and  miles  of  purple  heather,  I de- 
scended through  the  dense  coppice  of  birch 
and  pine  that  fringes  Loch  Katrine,  and  all 
in  a moment  came  out  upon  the  levels  of  the 
lake.  It  was  a long  sail  down  Loch  Katrine 
for  a pilgrim  drenched  and  chilled  by  the 
steady  fall  of  a penetrating  rain  ; but  Ellen’s 
Isle  and  Fitz- James’s  Silver  Strand  brought 
pleasant  memories  of  one  of  the  sweetest 
of  stories,  and  all  the  lonesome  waters 
seemed  haunted  with  a ghostly  pageant  of 
the  radiant  standards  of  Roderick  Dhu, 
To-night  the  mists  are  on  the  mountains, 


312 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


and  upon  this  little  pine -clad  promontory  of 
Stronachlacher  the  darkness  comes  down 
early  and  seems  to  close  it  in  from  all  the 
world.  The  waters  of  Loch  Katrine  are 
black  and  gloomy,  and  no  sound  is  heard 
but  the  rush  of  the  rain  and  the  sigh  of  the 
pines.  It  is  a night  for  memory  and  for 
thought,  and  to  them  let  it  be  devoted. 

The  night- wind  that  sobs  in  the  trees — 

Ah,  would  that  my  spirit  could  tell 
What  an  infinite  meaning  it  breathes. 

What  a sorrow  and  longing  it  wakes  ! 


XXIII. 


IMPERIAL  RUINS. 

OBAN,  September  4,  1890. — Going  west- 
ward from  Stronachlacher  a drive  of 
several  delicious  miles,  through  the  country 
of  Rob  Roy,  ends  at  Inversnaid  and  the 
shore  of  Loch  Lomond.  The  rain  had 
passed,  but  under  a dusky,  lowering  sky  the 
dense  white  mists,  driven  by  a fresh  morn- 
ing wind,  were  drifting  along  the  heath-clad 
hills,  like  a pageant  of  angels  trailing  robes 
of  light.  Loch  iirklet  and  the  little  shieling 
where  was  born  Helen,  the  wife  of  the 
Macgregor,  were  soon  past — a peaceful  re- 
gion smiling  in  the  vale ; and  presently, 
along  the  northern  bank  of  the  Arklet, 
whose  copious,  dark  and  rapid  waters, 
broken  into  foam  upon  their  rocky  bed, 
make  music  all  the  way,  I descended  that 
precipitous  road  to  Loch  Lomond  which, 
through  many  a devious  turning  and  sudden 
peril  in  the  fragrant  coppice,  reaches  safety 
at  last  in  one  of  the  wildest  of  Highland 

313 


314  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

glens.  This  drive  is  a chief  delight  of  High- 
land travel,  and  it  appears  to  be  one  that 
“ the  march  of  improvement,” — meaning  the 
extension  of  railways, — can  never  abolish  ; 
for,  besides  being  solitary  and  beautiful,  the 
way  is  difficult.  You  easily  divine  what  a 
sanctuary  that  region  must  have  been  to  the 
bandit  chieftain,  when  no  road  traversed  it 
save  perhaps  a sheep-track  or  a path  for 
horses,  and  when  it  was  darkly  covered  with 
the  thick  pines  of  the  Caledonian  forest. 
Scarce  a living  creature  was  anywhere 
visible.  A few  hardy  sheep,  indeed,  were 
grazing  on  the  mountain  slopes  ; a few 
cattle  were  here  and  there  couched  among 
the  tall  ferns ; and  sometimes  a sable  com- 
pany of  rooks  flitted  by,  cawing  drearily 
overhead.  Once  I saw  the  slow-stepping, 
black-faced,  puissant  Highland  bull,  with 
his  menacing  head  and  his  dark  air  of  sus- 
pended hostility  and  inevitable  predomi- 
nance. All  the  cataracts  in  those  mountain 
glens  were  at  the  flood  because  of  the 
continuous  heavy  rains  of  an  uncommonly 
wet  season,  and  at  Inversnaid  the  magnifi- 
cent waterfall — twin  sister  to  Lodore  and 
Aira  Force — came  down  in  great  floods  of 
black  and  silver,  and  with  a long  resounding 
roar  that  seemed  to  shake  the  forest.  Soon 


IMPERIAL  RUINS. 


315 


the  welcome  sun  began  to  pierce  the  mists  ; 
patches  of  soft  blue  sky  became  visible 
through  rifts  in  the  gray  ; and  a glorious 
rainbow,  suddenly  cast  upon  a mountain- 
side of  opposite  Inveruglas,  spanned  the 
whole  glittering  fairy  realm  with  its  great 
arch  of  incommunicable  splendour.  The 
place  of  Rob  Roy’s  cavern  was  seen,  as  the 
boat  glided  down  Loch  Lomond, — a snug 
nest  in  the  wooded  crag, — and,  after  all  too 
brief  a sail  upon  those  placid  ebon  waters, 
I mounted  the  coach  that  plies  between 
Ardlui  and  Crianlarich.  Not  much  time 
will  now  elapse  before  this  coach  is  displaced 
— for  they  are  building  a railroad  through 
Glen  Falloch,  which,  running  southerly 
from  Crianlarich,  will  skirt  the  western 
shore  of  Loch  Lomond  and  reach  to  Balloch 
and  Helensburgh,  and  thus  will  make  the 
railway  communication  complete,  continuous, 
and  direct  between  Glasgow  and  Oban.  At 
intervals  all  along  the  glen  were  visible  the 
railway  embankments,  the  piles  of  ‘ ‘ sleepers,  ” 
the  heaps  of  steel  rails,  the  sheds  of  the 
builders,  and  the  red  flag  of  the  dynamite 
blast.  The  new  road  will  be  a popular 
line  of  travel.  No  land  “that  the  eye  Of 
Heaven  visits”  is  lovelier  than  this  one. 
But  it  may  perhaps  be  questioned  whether 


3 1 6 GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

the  exquisite  loveliness  of  the  Scottish  High- 
lands will  not  become  vulgarised  by  over- 
easiness of  accessibility.  Sequestration  is 
one  of  the  elements  of  the  beautiful,  and 
numbers  of  people  invariably  make  common 
everything  upon  which  they  swarm.  But  no- 
thing can  debase  the  unconquerable  majesty 
of  those  encircling  mountains.  I saw  ‘ ‘ the 
skyish  head”  of  Ben  More,  at  one  angie, 
and  of  Ben  Lui  at  another,  and  the  lonely 
slopes  of  the  Grampian  Hills  ; and  over  the 
surrounding  pasture-land,  for  miles  and 
miles  of  solitary  waste,  the  thick,  ripe 
heather  burnished  the  earth  with  brown 
and  purple  bloom  and  filled  the  air  wTith 
dewy  fragrance. 

This  day  proved  capricious,  and  by  the 
time  the  railway  train  from  Crianlarich  had 
sped  a little  way  into  Glen  Lochy  the  land- 
scape was  once  more  drenched  with  wild 
blasts  of  rain.  Loch-an-Beach,  always 
gloomy,  seemed  black  with  desolation. 
Vast  mists  hung  over  the  mountain- tops 
and  partly  hid  them  ; yet  down  their  fern- 
clad  and  heather-mantled  sides  the  many 
snowy  rivulets,  seeming  motionless  in  the 
impetuosity  of  their  motion,  streamed  in 
countless  ribands  of  silver  lace.  The  moun- 
tain ash,  which  is  in  perfect  bloom  in  Sep- 


IMPERIAL  RUINS. 


317 


tember,  bearing  great  pendent  clusters  of 
scarlet  berries,  gave  a frequent  touch  of 
brilliant  colour  to  this  wild  scenery.  A 
numerous  herd  of  little  Highland  steers, 
mostly  brown  and  black,  swept  suddenly 
into  the  picture  as  the  express  flashed  along 
Glen  Lochy,  and  at  beautiful  Dalmally  the 
sun  again  came  out  with  sudden  transient 
gleams  of  intermittent  splendour ; so  that 
gray  Kilchurn  and  the  jewelled  waters  of 
sweet  Loch  Awe,  and  even  the  cold  and  grim 
grandeur  of  the  rugged  Pass  of  Brander, 
were  momentarily  clothed  with  tender, 
golden  haze.  It  was  afternoon  when  I 
alighted  in  the  seaside  haven  of  Oban  ; yet 
soon,  beneath  the  solemn  light  of  the  wan- 
ing day,  I once  more  stood  amid  the  ruins 
of  Dunstaffnage  Castle  and  looked  upon  one 
of  the  most  representative,  even  as  it  is  one 
of  the  most  picturesque,  relics  of  the  feudal 
times  of  Scottish  history.  You  have  to 
journey  about  three  miles  out  of  the  town  in 
order  to  reach  that  place,  which  is  upon  a 
promontory  where  Loch  Etive  joins  Loch 
Linnhe.  The  carriage  was  driven  to  it 
through  a shallow  water  and  across  some 
sands  which  soon  a returning  tide  would 
deeply  submerge.  The  castle  is  so  placed 
that,  when  it  was  fortified,  it  must  have 


318  gray  days  and  gold. 

been  well-nigh  impregnable.  It  stands 
upon  a broad,  high,  ^'massive,  precipitous 
rock,  looking  seaward  toward  Lismore  Is- 
land. Nothing  of  that  old  fortress  now 
remains  except  the  battlemented  walls, 
upon  the  top  of  which  there  is  a walk,  and 
portions  of  its  towers,  of  which  originally 
there  were  but  three.  The  roof  and  the 
floors  are  gone.  The  courtyard  is  turfed, 
and  over  the  surface  within  its  enclosure  the 
grass  grows  thick  and  green,  while  weeds 
and  wild -flowers  fringe  its  slowly  mouldering 
walls,  upon  which  indeed  several  small  trees 
have  rooted  themselves,  in  crevices  stuffed 
with  earth.  One  superb  ivy  tree,  of  great 
age  and  size,  covers  much  of  the  venerable 
ruin,  upon  its  inner  surface,  with  a wild 
luxuriance  of  brilliant  foliage.  There  are 
the  usual  indications  in  the  masonry,  show- 
ing how  the  area  of  this  castle  was  once 
subdivided  into  rooms  of  various  shapes  and 
sizes,  some  of  them  large,  in  which  were 
ample  fireplaces  and  deeply  recessed  em- 
brasures, and  no  doubt  arched  casements 
opening  on  the  inner  court.  Here  dwelt 
the  early  Kings  of  Scotland.  Here  the 
national  story  of  Scotland  began.  Here  for 
a long  time  was  treasured  the  Stone  of 
Destiny  (Lia  Fail)  before  it  was  taken  to 


IMPERIAL  RUINS. 


319 


Scone  Abbey,  thence  to  be  borne  to  Lon- 
don by  Edward  1.,  in  1296,  and  placed, 
where  it  has  ever  since  remained,  and  is 
visible  now,  in  the  old  Coronation  Chair  in 
the  Chapel  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  at 
Westminster.  Here  through  the  slow- 
moving  centuries  many  a story  of  love,  am- 
bition, sorrow,  and  death  has  had  its  course 
and  left  its  record.  Here,  in  the  stormy, 
romantic  period  that  followed  1745,  was 
imprisoned  for  a while  the  beautiful,  in- 
trepid, constant,  and  noble  Flora  Macdonald 
— who  had  saved  the  person  and  the  life 
of  the  fugitive  Pretender,  after  the  fatal 
defeat  and  hideous  carnage  of  Culloden. 
What  pageants,  what  festivals,  what  glories 
and  what  horrors  have  those  old  walls 
beheld  ! Their  stones  seem  agonised  with 
ghastly  memories  and  weary  with  the  in- 
tolerable burden  of  hopeless  age ; and  as  I 
stood  and  pondered  amid  their  gray  de- 
crepitude and  arid  desolation, — while  the 
light  grew  dim  and  the  evening  wind  sighed 
in  the  ivy  and  shook  the  tremulous  wall- 
flowers and  the  rustling  grass, — the  ancient, 
worn-out  pile  seemed  to  have  a voice  and 
to  plead  for  the  merciful  death  that  should 
put  an  end  to  its  long,  consuming  misery 
and  dumb  decay.  Often  before,  when 


320 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


standing  alone  among  ruins,  have  I felt  this 
spirit  of  supplication,  and  seen  this  strange, 
beseechful  look,  in  the  silent,  patient  stones : 
never  before  had  it  appealed  to  my  heart 
with  such  eloquence  and  such  pathos. 
Truly  nature  passes  through  all  the  experi- 
ence and  all  the  moods  of  man,  even  as  man 
passes  through  all  the  experience  and  all  the 
moods  of  nature. 

On  the  western  side  of  the  courtyard  of 
Dunstaffhage  stands  a small  stone  building, 
accessible  by  a low  flight  of  steps,  which 
bears  upon  its  front  the  sculptured  date 
1725,  intertwined  with  the  letters  AE.  C. 
and  LC.,  and  the  words  Laus  Deo.  From 
the  battlements  I had  a wonderful  view  of 
adjacent  lakes  and  engirdling  mountains, — 
the  jewels  and  their  giant  guardians  of  the 
lonely  land  of  Lorn, — and  saw  the  red  sun 
go  down  over  a great  inland  sea  of  purple 
heather,  and  upon  the  wide  waste  of  the 
desolate  ocean.  These  and  such  as  these 
are  the  scenes  that  make  this  country  dis- 
tinctive, and  that  have  stamped  their  im- 
press of  stately  thought  and  romantic  senti- 
ment upon  its  people.  Amid  such  scenes 
the  Scottish  national  character  has  been 
developed,  and  under  their  influence  have 
naturally  been  created  the  exquisite  poetry, 


IMPERIAL  RUINS. 


321 


the  enchanting  music,  the  noble  art  and 
architecture,  and  the  austere  civilisation  of 
imperial  Scotland. 

After  dark  the  rain  again  came  on,  and  all 
night  long,  through  light  and  troubled 
slumber,  I heard  it  beating  on  the  window- 
panes.  The  morning  dawned  in  gloom  and 
drizzle,  and  there  was  no  prophetic  voice  to 
speak  a word  of  cheer.  One  of  the  expedi- 
tions that  may  be  made  from  Oban  compre- 
hends a visit  to  Fingal’s  Cave,  on  the  island 
of  Staffa,  and  to  the  ruined  Cathedral  of 
Saint  Columba,  on  the  island  of  Iona,  and, 
incidentally,  a voyage  around  the  great 
island  of  Mull.  It  is  the  most  beautiful, 
romantic,  diversified,  and  impressive  sail 
that  can  be  made  in  these  waters.  The 
expeditious  itinerant  in  Scotland  waits  not 
upon  the  weather,  and  at  an  early  hour  this 
day  I wras  speeding  out  of  Oban,  with  the 
course  set  for  Lismore  Light  and  the  Sound 
of  Mull. 


x 


XXIV. 


THE  LAND  OF  MARMION. 

BERWICK-UPOX-TWEED,  September 
8,  1890. — It  had  long  been  my  wish  to 
see  something  of  Royal  Berwick,  and  our 
acquaintance  has  at  length  begun.  This  is 
a town  of  sombre  gray  houses  capped  with 
red  roofs  ; of  elaborate,  old-fashioned,  dis- 
used fortifications ; of  dismantled  military 
walls  ; of  noble  stone  bridges  and  stalwart 
piers ; of  breezy  battlement  walks,  fine  sea- 
views,  spacious  beaches,  castellated  remains, 
steep  streets,  broad  squares,  narrow,  wind- 
ing ways,  many  churches,  quiet  customs,  and 
ancient  memories.  The  present,  indeed,  has 
marred  the  past  in  this  old  town,  dissi- 
pating the  element  of  romance  and  putting 
no  adequate  substitute  in  its  place.  Yet  the 
element  of  romance  is  here,  for  such  ob- 
servers as  can  look  on  Berwick  through  the 
eyes  of  the  imagination ; and  even  those 
who  can  imagine  nothing  must  at  least  per- 
ceive that  its  aspect  is  regal.  Viewed,  as  I 

322 


THE  LAND  OF  MARMION.  323 

had  often  viewed  it,  from  the  great  Border 
Bridge  between  England  and  Scotland,  it 
rises  on  its  graceful  promontory, — bathed 
in  sunshine  and  darkly  bright  amid  the 
sparkling  silver  of  the  sea, — a veritable 
ocean  queen.  To-day  I have  walked  upon 
its  walls,  threaded  its  principal  streets, 
crossed  its  ancient  bridge,  explored  its 
suburbs,  entered  its  municipal  hall,  visited 
its  parish  church,  and  taken  long  drives 
through  the  country  that  encircles  it : and 
now  at  midnight,  sitting  in  a lonely  chamber 
of  the  King’s  Arms  and  musing  upon  the 
past,  I hear  not  simply  the  roll  of  a carriage 
wheel  or  the  footfall  of  a late  traveller 
dying  away  in  the  distance,  but  the  music 
with  which  warriors  proclaimed  their  vic- 
tories and  kings  and  queens  kept  festival 
and  state.  This  has  been  a pensive  day,  for 
in  its  course  I have  said  farewell  to  many 
lovely  and  beloved  scenes.  Edinburgh  was 
never  more  beautiful  than  when  she  faded 
in  the  yellow  mist  of  this  autumnal  morning. 
On  Preston  battlefield  the  golden  harvest 
stood  in  sheaves,  and  the  meadows  glimmered 
green  in  the  soft  sunshine,  while  over  them 
the  white  clouds  drifted  and  the  peaceful 
rooks  made  wing  in  happy  indolence  and 
peace.  Soon  the  ruined  church  of  Seton 


324  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

came  into  view,  with  its  singular  stunted 
tower  and  its  venerable*  gray  walls  couched 
deep  in  trees,  and  around  it  the  cultivated, 
many-coloured  fields  and  the  breezy,  emerald 
pastures  stretching  away  to  the  verge  of  the 
sea.  A glimpse — and  it  is  gone.  But  one 
sweet  picture  no  sooner  vanishes  than  its 
place  is  filled  with  another.  Yonder,  on  the 
hillside,  is  the  manor-house,  stately  with 
battlement  and  tower,  its  antique  aspect 
softened  by  great  masses  of  clinging  ivy. 
Here,  nestled  in  the  sunny  valley,  are  the 
little  stone  cottages,  roofed  with  red  tiles 
and  bright  with  the  adornment  of  arbutus  and 
hollyhock.  All  around  are  harvest-fields 
and  market-gardens, — the  abundant  dark 
green  of  potato -patches  being  gorgeously  lit 
with  the  intermingled  lustre  of  millions  of 
wild-flowers,  white  and  gold,  over  which 
drift  many  flights  of  doves.  Sometimes  upon 
the  yellow  level  of  the  hayfields  a sudden 
wave  of  brilliant  poppies  seems  to  break, 
dashing  itself  into  scarlet  foam.  Timid, 
startled  sheep  scurry  away  into  their  pastures 
as  the  swift  train  flashes  by  them.  A 
woman  standing  at  her  cottage  door  looks  at 
it  with  curious  yet  regardless  gaze.  Farms 
teeming  with  plenty  are  swiftly  traversed, 
their  many  circular,  cone-topped  hayricks 


THE  LAND  OF  MARMION.  325 

standing  like  towers  of  amber.  Tall, 
smoking  chimneys  in  the  factory  villages  flit 
by  and  disappear.  Everywhere  are  signs  of 
industry  and  thrift,  and  everywhere  also  are 
denotements  of  the  sentiment  and  taste  that 
are  spontaneous  in  the  nature  of  this  people. 
Tantallon  lies  in  the  near  distance,  and 
speeding  toward  ancient  Dunbar  I dream  once 
more  the  dreams  of  boyhood,  and  can  hear 
the  trumpets,  and  see  the  pennons,  and  catch 
again  the  silver  gleam  of  the  spears  of 
Marmion.  Dunbar  is  left  behind,  and  with 
it  the  sad  memory  of  Mary  Stuart,  infatuated 
with  barbaric  Bothwell,  and  whirled  away 
to  shipwreck  and  ruin, — as  so  many  great 
natures  have  been  before  and  will  be  again, 
— upon  the  black  reefs  of  human  passion. 
This  heedless  train  is  skirting  the  hills  of 
Lammermoor  now,  and  speeding  through 
plains  of  a fertile  verdure  that  is  brilliant  and 
beautiful  down  to  the  margin  of  the  ocean. 
Close  by  Cockburnspath  is  the  long,  lonely, 
melancholy  beach  that  well  may  have  been 
in  Scott’s  remembrance  when  he  fashioned 
that  weird  and  tragic  close  of  the  most 
poetical  and  pathetic  of  his  works,  while, 
near  at  hand,  on  its  desolate  headland,  the 
grim  ruin  of  Fast  Castle, — which  is  deemed 
the  original  of  his  Wolf’s  Crag, — frowns 


326 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


darkly  on  the  white  breakers  at  its  surge- 
beaten  base.  Edgar  of  Ravenswood  is  no 
longer  an  image  of  fiction,  when  you  look 
upon  this  scene  of  gloomy  grandeur  and 
mystery.  But  do  not  look  upon  it  too 
closely,  nor  for  long — for  of  all  scenes  that 
are  conceived  as  distinctively  weird  it  may 
truly  be  said  that  they  are  more  impressive 
in  the  imagination  than  in  the  actual  pro- 
spect. This  coast  is  full  of  dark  ravines, 
stretching  seaward  and  thickly  shrouded 
with  trees,  but  in  them  now  and  then  a 
glimpse  is  caught  of  a snugly  sheltered  house, 
overgrown  with  flowers,  securely  protected 
from  every  blast  of  storm.  The  rest  is  open 
land,  which  many  dark  stone  walls  partition, 
and  many  hawthorn  hedges,  and  many  little 
white  roads  winding  away  toward  the  shore  : 
for  this  is  Scottish  seaside  pageantry,  and  the 
sunlit  ocean  makes  a silver  setting  for  the 
jewelled  landscape,  all  the  way  to  Berwick. 

The  profit  of  walking  in  the  footsteps  of 
the  past  is  that  you  learn  the  value  of  the 
privilege  of  life  in  the  present.  The  men 
and  women  of  the  past  had  their  oppor 
tunity,  and  each  improved  it  after  his  kind. 
These  are  the  same  plains  in  which  Bruce 
and  Wallace  fought  for  the  honour  and  estab- 
lished the  supremacy  of  the  Kingdom  of  Scot- 


THE  LAND  OF  MARMION.  327 

land.  The  same  sun  gilds  these  plains  to- 
day, the  same  sweet  wind  blows  over  them, 
and  the  same  sombre,  majestic  ocean  breaks 
in  solemn  murmurs  on  their  shore.  “ Hodie 
mihi,  eras  tibi” — as  it  was  written  on  the 
altar  skulls  in  the  ancient  churches.  Yester- 
day belonged  to  them  : to-day  belongs  to 
us — and  well  will  it  be  for  us  if  we  improve 
it.  In  such  an  historic  town  as  Berwick  the 
lesson  is  brought  home  to  a thoughtful  mind 
with  convincing  force  and  significance.  So 
much  has  happened  here — and  every  actor 
in  the  great  drama  is  long  since  dead  and 
gone  ! Hither  came  King  John,  and  slaugh- 
tered the  people  as  if  they  were  sheep, 
and  burnt  the  city — himself  applying  the 
torch  to  the  house  in  which  he  had  slept. 
Hither  came  Edward  1.,  and  mercilessly 
butchered  the  inhabitants,  men,  women  and 
children, — violating  even  the  sanctuary  of 
the  churches.  Here,  in  his  victorious 
days,  Sir  William  Wallace  reigned  and  pro- 
spered ; and  here,  when  Menteith’s  treachery 
had  wrought  his  ruin,  a fragment  of  his 
mutilated  body  was  long  displayed  upon  the 
Bridge.  Here,  in  the  castle,  of  which  only 
a few  fragments  now  remain  (these  being 
adjacent  to  the  North  British  Railway  sta- 
tion), King  Edward  caused  to  be  confined 


328  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

in  a wooden  cage  that  intrepid  Countess  of 
Buchan  who  had  crowned  Robert  Bruce 
at  Scone.  Hither  came  Edward  m.,  after 
the  battle  of  Halidon  Hill  — which  lies 
close  by  this  place — had  finally  established 
the  English  power  in  Scotland.  All  the 
princes  that  fought  in  the  wars  of  the  Roses 
have  been  in  Berwick,  and  have  wrangled 
over  the  possession  of  it.  Richard  in. 
doomed  it  to  isolation,  and  Henry  vn.  de- 
clared it  a neutral  state.  By  Elizabeth  it 
was  fortified, — in  that  wise  sovereign’s 
resolute  and  vigorous  resistance  to  the 
schemes  of  the  Romish  Church  for  the 
subjugation  of  her  Kingdom.  John  Knox 
preached  here,  in  a church  on  Hide  Hill,  be- 
fore he  went  to  Edinburgh  to  shake  the 
throne  with  his  tremendous  eloquence.  The 
picturesque,  unhappy  James  iv.  went  from 
this  place  to  Ford  Castle  and  Lady  Heron, 
and  thence  to  his  death,  at  Flodden  Field. 
Here  it  was  that  Sir  John  Cope  first  paused 
in  his  fugitive  ride  from  the  fatal  field  of 
Preston,  and  here  he  was  greeted  as  affording 
the  only  instance  in  which  the  first  news  of  a 
defeat  had  been  brought  by  the  vanquished 
General  himself.  And  almost  within  sight 
of  Berwick  spire  are  those  perilous  Fame 
Islands,  where,  at  the  wreck  of  the  steamer 


THE  LAND  OF  MARMION.  329 

“ Forfarshire,”  in  1838,  the  heroism  of  a 
woman  wrote  upon  the  historic  page  of  her 
country,  in  letters  of  imperishable  glory,  the 
name  of  Grace  Darling.  There  is  a monument 
to  her  memory  in  Bamborough  churchyard. 
Imagination,  however,  has  done  for  this 
region  what  history  could  never  do.  Each 
foot  of  this  ground  was  known  to  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  and  for  every  lover  of  that  great 
author  each  foot  of  it  is  hallowed.  It  is  the 
Border  Land, — the  land  of  chivalry  and  song 
— the  land  that  he  has  endeared  to  all  the 
world — and  you  come  to  it  mainly  for  his 
sake. 

“Day  set  on  Norham’s  castled  steep, 

And  Tweed’s  fair  river,  broad  and  deep, 
And  Cheviot’s  mountains  lone.  ” 

The  village  of  Norham  lies  a few  miles 
westward  of  Berwick,  upon  the  south  bank 
of  the  Tweed,  and  certainly  the  wanderer 
seldom  comes  upon  such  a sequestered  and 
primitive  settlement — wherein,  neverthe- 
less, the  civilisation  is  ancient  and  immov- 
ably established.  Norham  is  a group  of  cot- 
tages clustered  around  a single  long  street. 
The  buildings  are  low,  and  are  mostly  roofed 
with  dark  slate  or  red  tiles.  Some  of  them 
are  thatched,  and  grass  and  flowers  grow 


330  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 

wild  upon  the  thatch . At  one  end  of  the  main 
highway  is  a market-cross,  near  to  which  is  a 
little  inn.  Beyond  this,  and  nearer  to  the 
Tweed,  which  flows  close  beside  the  place,  is 
a church  of  great  antiquity,  set  toward 
the  western  end  of  a long  and  ample  church- 
yard, in  which  many  graves  are  marked  with 
tall,  thick,  perpendicular  slabs,  many  with 
dark,  oblong  tombs  tumbling  to  ruin,  and 
many  with  short,  stunted  monoliths.  The 
church  tower  is  low,  square,  and  of  enor- 
mous strength.  Upon  the  south  side  of 
the  chancel  are  five  windows,  beautifully 
arched, — the  dog-toothed  casements  being 
uncommonly  complete  specimens  of  this 
ancient  architectural  device  ; and  on  the  out 
side  surface  of  this  chancel  wall,  in  the  first 
bay,  there  are  not  less  than  thirty-two  cup- 
marks.  This  church  has  been  “restored” 
— the  south  aisle  in  1846,  by  I.  Bononi ; the 
north  aisle  in  1852,  by  E.  Gray.  The  west- 
ern end  of  the  churchyard  is  thickly  masked 
in  great  trees,  and  looking  directly  east  from 
this  point  your  gaze  falls  upon  all  that  is  left 
of  the  stately  and  storied  Castle  of  Norham 
— built  by  a Bishop  of  Durham  in  1121,  and 
restored  by  another  Prince  of  that  See  in 
1174.  It  must  once  have  been  a place  of 
tremendous  fortitude  and  of  great  extent. 


THE  LAND  OF  MARMION.  33 1 

Now  it  is  wide  open  to  the  sky,  and  nothing 
of  it  remains  but  roofless  walls  and  crumb- 
ling arches,  on  which  the  grass  is  growing 
and  the  pendent  bluebells  tremble  in  the 
breeze.  Looking  through  the  embrasures  of 
the  east  wall  you  see  the  tops  of  large  trees 
that  are  rooted  in  the  vast  trench  below,  where 
once  were  the  dark  waters  of  the  moat.  All 
the  courtyards  are  covered  now  with  sod, 
and  quiet  sheep  nibble  and  lazy  cattle  couch 
where  once  the  royal  banners  floated  and 
plumed  and  belted  knights  stood  round  their 
king.  It  was  a day  of  uncommon  beauty — 
golden  with  sunshine  and  fresh  with  a per- 
fumed air ; and  nothing  was  wanting  to  the 
perfection  of  solitude.  Near  at  hand  a thin 
stream  of  pale  blue  smoke  curled  upward 
from  a cottage  chimney.  At  some  distance 
the  sweet  voices  of  playing  children  mingled 
with  the  chirp  of  small  birds  and  the  occa- 
sional cawing  of  the  rook.  The  long  grasses 
that  grow  upon  the  ruin  moved  faintly,  but 
made  no  sound.  A few  doves  were  seen, 
gliding  in  and  out  of  crevices  in  the  mould- 
ering turret.  And  over  all,  and  calmly  and 
coldly  speaking  the  survival  of  nature  when 
the  grandest  works  of  man  are  dust,  sounded 
the  rustle  of  many  branches  in  the  heedless 
wind. 


332 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD. 


The  day  was  setting  over  Norham  as  I 
drove  away — the  red  sun  slowly  obscured  in 
a great  bank  of  slate-coloured  cloud, — but  to 
the  last  I bent  my  gaze  upon  it,  and  that 
picture  of  ruined  magnificence  can  never  fade 
out  of  my  mind.  The  road  eastward  toward 
Berwick  is  a green  lane,  running  between 
harvest-fields,  which  now  were  thickly  piled 
with  golden  sheaves,  while  over  them  swept 
great  flocks  of  sable  rooks.  There  are  but 
few  trees  in  that  landscape — scattered  groups 
of  the  ash  and  the  plane — to  break  the 
prospect.  For  a long  time  the  stately  ruin 
remained  in  view, — its  huge  bulk  and  ser- 
rated outline,  relieved  against  the  red  and 
gold  of  sunset,  taking  on  the  perfect  sem- 
blance of  a colossal  cathedral,  like  that  of 
Iona,  with  vast  square  tower,  and  chancel, 
and  nave  : only,  because  of  its  jagged  lines, 
it  seems  in  this  prospect  as  if  shaken  by  a 
convulsion  of  nature  and  tottering  to  its 
momentary  fall.  Never  was  illusion  more 
perfect.  Yet  as  the  vision  faded  I could  re- 
member only  the  illusion  that  will  never  fade 
— the  illusion  that  a magical  poetic  genius 
has  cast  over  those  crumbling  battlements  ; 
rebuilding  the  shattered  towers,  and  pouring 
through  their  ancient  halls  the  glowing  tide 
of  life  and  love,  of  power  and  pageant,  of 
beauty,  light,  and  song. 


AT  VESPER  TIME 


THE  SHIP  THAT  SAILED. 


i. 


HITE  sail  upon  the  ocean  verge, 


Just  crimsoned  by  the  setting  sun, 
Thou  hast  thy  port  beyond  the  surge, 
Thy  happy  homeward  course  to  run, 
And  winged  hope,  with  heart  of  fire, 

To  gain  the  bliss  of  thy  desire. 

I watch  thee  till  the  sombre  sky 
Has  darkly  veiled  the  lucent  plain  ; 

My  thoughts  like  homeless  spirits,  fly 
Behind  thee  o’er  the  glimmering  main  : 
Thy  prow  will  kiss  a golden  strand, 

But  they  can  never  come  to  land. 

And  if  they  could,  the  fanes  are  black 
Where  once  I bent  the  reverent  knee  ; 
No  shrine  would  send  an  answer  back. 

No  sacred  altar  blaze  for  me, 

No  holy  bell,  with  silver  toll, 

Declare  the  ransom  of  my  soul. 


335 


336  THE  SHIP  THAT  SAILED. 

Tis  equal  darkness,  here  or  there  ; 

For  nothing  that  this  world  can  give 
Could  now  the  ravaged  past  repair, 

Or  win  the  precious  dead  to  live  ! 
Life’s  crumbling  ashes  quench  its  flame, 
And  every  place  is  now  the  same. 


11. 

Thou  idol  of  my  constant  heart, 

Thou  child  of  perfect  love  and  light, 
That  sudden  from  my  side  didst  part, 
And  vanish  in  the  sea  of  night, 
Through  whatsoever  tempests  blow 
My  weary  soul  with  thine  would  go. 

Say,  if  thy  spirit  yet  have  speech, 

What  port  lies  hid  within  the  pall, 
What  shore  death’s  gloomy  billows  reach. 

Or  if  they  reach  no  shore  at  all ! 

One  word — one  little  word — to  tell 
That  thou  art  safe  and  all  is  well  ! 

The  anchors  of  my  earthly  fate, 

As  they  were  cast  so  must  they  cling  ; 
And  naught  is  now  to  do  but  wait 
The  sweet  release  that  time  will  bring 
When  all  these  mortal  moorings  break, 
For  one  last  voyage  I must  make. 


ASHES. 


337 


Say  that  across  the  shuddering  dark — 
And  whisper  that  the  hour  is  near — 
Thy  hand  will  guide  my  shattered  bark 
Till  mercy’s  radiant  coasts  appear, 
Where  I shall  clasp  thee  to  my  breast, 
And  know  once  more  the  name  of  rest. 


ASHES. 


[Written  in  the  Shakespeare  Church  at  Strat- 
ford-upon-Avon. ] 


NO  eyes  can  see  man’s  destiny  completed 
Save  His,  who  made  and  knows 
th’  eternal  plan  : 

As  shapes  of  cloud  in  mountains  are  repeated, 
So  thoughts  of  God  accomplished  are  in 


Here  the  divinest  of  all  thoughts  descended  ; 
Here  the  sweet  heavens  their  sweetest  boon 
let  fall ; 

Upon  this  hallowed  ground  begun  and  ended 
The  life  that  knew,  and  felt,  and  uttered  all. 

There  is  not  anything  of  human  trial 
That  ever  love  deplored  or  sorrow  knew, 
No  glad  fulfilment  and  no  sad  denial, 

Beyond  the  pictured  truth  that  Shake- 
speare drew. 

Y 


338  THE  PASSING  BELL  AT  STRATFORD. 

All  things  are  said  and  done,  and  though 
for  ever 

The  streams  dash  onward  and  the  great 
winds  blow, 

There  comes  no  new  thing  in  the  world,  and 
never 

A voice  like  his,  that  seems  to  make  it  so. 

Take  then  thy  fate,  or  opulent  or  sordid, 
Take  it  and  bear  it  and  esteem  it  blest ; 

For  of  all  crowns  that  ever  were  awarded 
The  crown  of  simple  patience  is  the  best. 


THE  PASSING  BELL  AT  STRATFORD. 

[It  is  a Tradition  in  Stratford-upon-Avon  that 
the  Bell  of  the  Guild  Chapel  was  tolled  at 
the  Death  and  Funeral  of  Shakespeare.] 

SWEET  bell  of  Stratford,  tolling  slow, 
In  summer  gloaming’s  golden  glow, 

I hear  and  feel  thy  voice  divine, 

And  all  my  soul  responds  to  thine. 

As  now  I hear  thee,  even  so, 

My  Shakespeare  heard  thee  long  ago, 
"When  lone  by  Avon’s  pensive  stream 
He  wandered,  in  his  haunted  dream  : 


heaven’s  hour. 


339 


Heard  thee — and  far  his  fancy  sped 
Through  spectral  caverns  of  the  dead, 
And  strove — and  strove  in  vain — to  pierce 
The  secret  of  the  universe. 

As  now  thou  mournest  didst  thou  mourn 
On  that  sad  day  when  he  was  borne 
Through  the  green  aisle  of  honied  limes, 
To  rest  beneath  the  chambered  chimes. 

He  heard  thee  not,  nor  cared  to  hear  ! 
Another  voice  was  in  his  ear, 

And,  freed  from  all  the  bonds  of  men, 

He  knew  the  awful  secret  then. 

Sweet  bell  of  Stratford,  toll,  and  be 
A sacred  promise  unto  me 
Of  that  great  hour  when  I shall  know 
The  path  whereon  his  footsteps  go. 

HEAVEN’S  HOUR, 

[Written  on  hearing  Organ  Music  at  Night  in 
Shakespeare’s  Church  at  Stratford.] 

CAN  I forget  ? — no,  never  while  my  soul 
Lives  to  remember — that  imperial  night 
When  through  the  spectral  church  I heard 
them  roll, 

Those  organ  tones  of  glory,  and  my  sight 
Grew  dim  with  tears,  while  ever  new  delight 


340  THE  STATUE. 

Throbbed  in  my  heart,  and  through  the 
shadowy  dread 

The  pale  ghosts  wandered,  and  a deathly 
chill 

Froze  all  my  being — the  mysterious  thrill 

That  tells  the  awful  presence  of  the  dead  ! 

Yet  not  the  dead,  but,  strayed  from  heavenly 
bowers, 

Pure  souls  that  live  with  other  life  than  ours: 

For  sure  I am  that  ecstasy  of  sound 

Lured  One  Sweet  Spirit  from  his  holy 
ground, 

Who  dwells  in  God’s  perpetual  land  of 
flowers. 


THE  STATUE. 

[Spoken  at  the  Dedication  of  a Monument  to 
the  Tragedian  John  M‘Cullough,  in  Mount 
Moriah  Cemetery,  Philadelphia,  November 
28,  1888.] 

I. 

HOW  different  now,  old  friend,  the  meet- 
ing ! 

Thy  form,  thy  face,  thy  look  the  same — 
But  where  is  now  the  kindly  greeting, 

The  voice  of  cheer,  the  heart  of  flame  ? 
There,  in  thy  grandeur,  calm  and  splendid, — 
God’s  peace  on  that  imperial  brow, — 


THE  STATUE. 


341 


Thou  standest,  grief  and  trouble  ended, 
And  we  are  nothing  to  thee  now. 


11. 

Yet  once  again  the  air  is  cloven 
With  joyous  tumult  of  acclaim  ; 

Once  more  the  golden  wreaths  are  woven, 
Of  love  and  honour,  for  thy  name  ; 

And  round  thee  here,  with  tender  longing, 
As  oft  they  did  in  days  of  old, 

The  comrades  of  thy  soul  come  thronging, 
Who  never  knew  thee  stern  or  cold. 

hi. 

Why  waits,  in  frozen  silence  sleeping, 

The  smile  that  made  our  hearts  rejoice  ? 

Why,  dead  to  laughing  and  to  weeping, 

Is  hushed  the  music  of  thy  voice  ? 

By  what  strange  mood  of  reverie  haunted 
Art  thou,  the  gentle,  grown  austere  ? 

And  do  we  live  in  dreams  enchanted, 

To  know  thee  gone,  yet  think  thee  here  ? 


IV. 

Ah,  fond  pretence  ! ah,  sweet  beguiling  ! 

Too  well  I know  thy  course  is  run. 

There ’s  no  more  grief  and  no  more  smiling 
For  thee  henceforth  beneath  the  sun. 


342 


THE  STATUE. 


In  manhood’s  noon  thy  summons  found  thee, 
In  glory’s  blaze,  on  fortune’s  height, 
Trailed  the  black  robe  of  doom  around  thee, 
And  veiled  thy  radiant  face  in  night. 


v. 

This  but  the  shadow  of  a vision 
Our  mourning  souls  alone  can  see, 

That  pierce  through  death  to  realms  elysian, 
More  hallowed  now  because  of  thee. 

Yet,  oh,  what  heart,  with  recollection 
Of  thy  colossal  trance  of  pain, 

Were  now  so  selfish  in  affection 

To  wish  thee  back  from  heaven  again  ! 

VI. 

There  must  be,  in  those  boundless  spaces 
Where  thy  great  spirit  wanders  free, 
Abodes  of  bliss,  enchanted  places, 

That  only  love’s  white  angels  see  ! 

And  sure,  if  heavenly  kindness  showered 
On  every  sufferer  ’neath  the  sun 
Shows  any  human  spirit  dowered 
With  love  angelic,  thou  wert  one  ! 

VII. 

There ’s  no  grand  impulse,  no  revealing, 

In  all  the  glorious  world  of  art, 


THE  STATUE. 


343 


There ’s  no  sweet  thought  or  noble  feeling 
That  throbbed  not  in  thy  manly  heart  ! 
There ’s  no  strong  flight  of  aspiration, 

No  reverent  dream  of  realms  divine, 

No  pulse,  no  thrill,  no  proud  elation 
Of  god-like  power  that  was  not  thine  ! 

VIII. 

So  stand  for  ever,  joyless,  painless, 

Supreme  alike  o’er  smiles  and  tears, 

Thou  true  man’s  image,  strong  and  stainless, 
Unchanged  through  all  the  changing 
years — 

While  fame’s  blue  crystal  o’er  thee  bending 
With  honour’s  gems  shall  blaze  and  burn. 
And  rose  and  lily,  round  thee  blending, 
Adorn  and  bless  thy  hallowed  urn  ! 


IX. 

While  summer  days  are  long  and  lonely, 
While  autumn  sunshine  seems  to  weep, 
While  midnight  hours  are  bleak,  and  only 
The  stars  and  clouds  their  vigils  keep, 
All  gentle  things  that  live  shall  moan  thee 
All  fond  regrets  for  ever  wake  ; 

For  earth  is  happier  having  known  thee, 
And  heaven  is  sweeter  for  thy  sake  ! 


344  IN  memory  of  wilkie  collins. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

[Died  September  23,  1889.] 


I. 

OFTEN  and  often,  when  the  days  were 
dark 

And,  whether  to  remember  or  behold, 

Life  was  a burden,  and  my  heart,  grown  old 
With  sorrow,  scarce  was  conscious,  did  I 
mark 

How  from  thy  distant  place  across  the  sea, 
Vibrant  with  hope  and  with  emotion  free, 
Thy  voice  of  cheer  rose  like  the  morning 
lark — 

And  that  was  comfort  if  not  joy  to  me  ! 
For  in  the  weakness  of  our  human  grief 
The  mind  that  does  not  break  and  will 
not  bend 

Teaches  Endurance  as  the  one  true  friend, 
The  steadfast  anchor  and  the  sure  relief. 
That  was  thy  word,  and  what  thy  precept 
taught 

Thy  life  made  regnant  in  one  living 
thought. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


345 


II. 

Thy  vision  saw  the  halo  of  romance 

Round  every  common  thing  that  men 
behold. 

Thy  lucid  art  could  turn  to  precious  gold, — 
Like  roseate  motes  that  in  the  sunbeams 
dance, — 

Whatever  object  met  thy  kindling  glance  ; 

And  in  that  mirror  life  was  never  cold. 

A gracious  warmth  suffused  thy  sparkling 
page, 

And  woman’s  passionate  heart  by  thee 
was  drawn, 

With  all  the  glorious  colours  of  the  dawn, 
Against  the  background  of  this  Pagan  age — 
Her  need  of  love,  her  sacrifice,  her  trance 

Of  patient  pain,  her  weary  pilgrimage  ! 
Thou  knewest  all  of  grief  that  can  be  known, 
And  didst  portray  all  sorrows  but  thine  own. 

ill. 

Where  shall  I turn,  now  that  thy  lips  are 
dumb 

And  night  is  on  those  eyes  that  loved  me 
well  ? 

What  other  voice,  across  thy  dying  knell, 
With  like  triumphant  notes  of  power  will 
come  ? 

Alas  ! my  ravaged  heart  is  still  and  numb 


346 


RAYMOND. 


With  thinking  of  the  blank  that  must 
remain  ! 

Yet  be  it  mine,  amid  these  wastes  of  pain, 
Where  all  must  falter  and  where  many  sink, 
To  stay  the  foot  of  misery  on  the  brink 
Of  dark  despair,  to  bid  blind  sorrow  see — 
Teaching  that  human  will  breaks  every  chain 
When  once  Endurance  sets  the  spirit  free  ; 
And,  living  thus  thy  perfect  faith,  to  think 
I am  to  others  what  thou  wert  to  me  ! 

Steamship  Aurania, 

Mid-ocean,  October  10,  1889. 


RAYMOND. 

An  Epitaph. 

HIS  restless  spirit,  while  on  earth  he 
dwelt, 

Wreathed  with  a smile  whatever  grief  he 
felt, — 

And  ’twas  his  lot,  though  crowned  with 
public  praise, 

Ample  and  warm,  to  walk  in  troubled  ways. 

i John  T.  Raymond  is  buried  at  Evergreen  Ceme- 
tery, Brooklyn,  N.Y. , and  his  grave  is  marked  with 
a monument  bearing  these  lines,  preceded  by  the 
following  inscription  : — “ This  monument,  the  gift  of 
many  affectionate  friends,  is  placed  here  in  loving 
memory  of  John  T.  Raymond,  comedian.  He  was 


RAYMOND.  347 

Glad  was  his  voice,  that  all  men  laughed  to 
hear, 

While  few  surmised  the  pang,  the  secret  tear. 
Yet  did  that  thrill  of  pathos  flush  the  grace 
Of  playful  humour  in  his  speaking  face. 
Inform  his  fancy  and  inspire  his  art 
To  cheer  the  senses  and  to  touch  the  heart. 
Jocund  and  droll,  incessant,  buoyant,  quaint, 
His  vigour  fired  the  forms  his  skill  could 
paint, 

Till,  over-anxious  lest  effects  were  tame. 

He  left  his  picture,  to  adorn  its  frame. 

A mind  more  sei  ious  never  did  engage 
Through  simulated  mirth  the  comic  stage, 
Nor  strong  ambition  conquer  and  control 
A sturdier  will  and  more  aspiring  soul. 

If  haply,  much  constrained,  his  purpose 
bowed 

To  woo  the  fancy  of  the  fickle  crowd, 

Yet  did  his  judgment  spurn  the  poor  renown 
Of  shallow  jester  and  of  trivial  clown. 

A true  comedian  this,  by  Fate  designed 
To  picture  manners  and  to  cheer  mankind. 

born  in  Buffalo,  New  York,  April  5,  1836.  He  died 
in  Evansville,  Indiana,  April  10,  1887. 

‘ Hinc  apicem  rapax 
Fortum  cum  stridore  acuto 
Sustulit,  hie  posuisse  gaudet ” 


34^  D.  D.  L. 

So  Raymond  lived — and  naught  remains  to 
tell, 

Save  that  too  soon  the  final  curtain  fell. 

Peace  to  his  dust,  where  Love  and  Honour 
weep, 

In  endless  sorrow  o’er  their  comrade’s 
sleep. 


D.  D.  L. 

[Died  September  5,  1889.] 

EARLY,  but  not  too  early  for  thy  fame, 
The  seal  of  silence  on  thy  lips  is  laid, 
While  we,  aghast,  disheartened,  and  dis- 
mayed, 

Crush  back  our  tears  and  softly  speak 
thy  name. 

To  us  it  has  one  meaning  and  the  same — 
A brave  and  gentle  soul,  a noble  mind, 

Pure,  constant,  generous,  modest  and  refined, 
With  simple  duty  for  its  only  aim. 

Dear  are  the  days  that  thou  hast  left  behind, 
By  sweet  words  hallowed,  and  by  kindly 
deeds  ; 

And  thus  the  heart  of  sorrow  moans  and 
bleeds, 

And  ever  bleeds,  and  will  not  be  resigned — 
Knowing  its  hopeless  hope  is  all  in  vain. 
To  see  thy  face  or  hear  thy  voice  again. 


SYMBOLS— HONOUR’S  PEARL. 


349 


SYMBOLS. 

NOT  only  to  give  light  those  urns 
Of  golden  fire  adorn  the  skies  ! 

Not  for  her  vision  only  burns 
The  glory  of  a woman’s  eyes  ! 

But  in  those  flames  and  that  fine  glance 
Th’  authentic  flags  of  heaven  advance. 

In  them  we  know  our  life  divine, 

For  which  th’  unnumbered  planets  roll ! 
Action  and  suffering  are  but  sign  : 

Within  the  shadow  dwells  the  soul ; 
And  till  we  rend  this  earthly  thrall 
We  do  not  truly  live  at  all. 


HONOUR’S  PEARL. 

[Read  at  a Feast  given  by  the  Editorial  Staff 
of  the  “ New  York  Tribune”  at  Delmonico’s, 
New  York,  May  3,  1889,  in  compliment  to  the 
Hon.  Whitelaw  Reid,  on  his  appointment  as 
Minister  of  the  United  States  to  France.] 

I. 

BECAUSE  in  danger's  darkest  hour, 
When  heart  and  hope  sank  low, 

She  nerved  our  frail  and  faltering  power 
To  brave  its  mightiest  foe  ; 


35° 


honour’s  pearl. 


Because  our  fathers  smiled  to  see 
Her  golden  lilies  dance 
O’er  the  proud  field  that  made  us  free, 
We  plight  our  faith  to  France  ! 


ii. 

Ah,  grand  and  sweet  the  holy  bond, 
That  who  gives  all  is  blest  ! 

And  Love  can  give  no  pledge  beyond 
The  life  she  loves  the  best. 

That  pledge  these  hallowed  rites  declare, 
Of  choice  and  not  of  chance — 

And  he  shall  cross  the  sea  to  bear 
Our  loyal  hearts  to  France  ! 

hi. 

Strong,  tender,  gentle,  patient,  wise, 
Brave  soul  and  constant  mind, 

True  wit,  that  kindles  as  it  flies 
And  leaves  no  grief  behind, — 

Be  thine  to  wear  the  snowy  plume 
And  poise  the  burnished  lance— 

Our  rose  of  chivalry,  to  bloom 
Among  the  knights  of  France  ! 

IV. 

Be  thine  the  glorious  task  to  speed 
The  conquering  age  of  gold — 


THE  BROKEN  HARP.  35 1 

Till  ravaged  peace  no  more  shall  bleed, 
Till  History’s  muse  behold 
Borne  in  the  vanward,  fast  and  far, 

Of  the  free  world’s  advance, 

Blent  with  Columbia’s  bannered  star, 

The  triple  stripes  of  France  ! 


THE  BROKEN  HARP. 

[Written  in  the  Vale  of  the  Dargle.] 

IF  this  now  silent  harp  could  wake, 
How  pure,  how  strong,  how  true 
The  tender  strain  its  chords  would  make 
Of  love  and  grief  for  you  ! 

But,  like  my  heart,  though  faithful  long, 
By  you  cast  forth  to  pain, 

This  hushed  and  humbled  voice  of  song 
Must  never  stir  again. 

Yet  haply  when  your  fancy  strays 
O’er  unregarded  things, 

And  half  in  dream  your  gentle  gaze 
Falls  on  its  shattered  strings, 

Some  loving  impulse  may  endear 
Your  memories  of  the  past, 

And  if  for  me  you  shed  one  tear 
I think  ’twould  wake  at  last : 


352 


NOW. 


Wake  with  a note  so  glad,  so  clear, 

So  lovely,  so  complete 
That  birds  on  wing  would  pause  to  hear 
Its  music  wild  and  sweet ; 

And  you  would  know—  alas  ! too  late — 
How  tender  and  how  true 
Is  this  fond  heart,  that  hugs  its  fate — 

To  die  for  love  and  you. 

NOW. 

WHEN  you  shall  walk  in  pensive  mood 
The  happy  paths  we  used  to  know, 
And  sweet  and  gentle  thoughts  intrude, 
And  tender  dreams  of  Long  Ago, 

How  will  your  wakened  spirit  bear 
Its  bitter  pang,  its  bleak  despair  ? 

When  in  your  heart,  as  now  in  mine, 

Shall  throb  the  pulse  of  sleepless  grief — 
Since  nothing  earthly  or  divine 

In  that  dark  hour  can  bring  relief — • 
How  will  you  mourn  o’er  wasted  bliss 
And  that  wild  moment  long  for  this  ! 

The  echo  of  a silent  word, 

An  exhalation  of  the  dew, 

A lonely  sigh  at  midnight  heard 
In  depth  of  some  funereal  yew — 


UNWRITTEN  POEMS. 


353 


These  shall  be  more,  in  that  black  day, 
Than  your  true  lover  past  away. 

Then  do  not  scorn  the  present  hour, 

Nor  crush  the  roses  while  they  bloom  ! 
The  best  of  time  has  only  power 
To  hang  a garland  on  a tomb  ; 

And  all  that  lasts  when  years  are  sped 
Is  hopeless  memory  of  the  dead. 

UNWRITTEN  POEMS. 

FAIRY  spirits  of  the  breeze — 
Frailer  nothing  is  than  these. 
Fancies  born  we  know  not  where — 

In  the  heart  or  in  the  air  : 

Wandering  echoes  blown  unsought 
From  far  crystal  peaks  of  thought : 
Shadows,  fading  at  the  dawn, 

Ghosts  of  feeling  dead  and  gone  : 

Alas  ! Are  all  fair  things  that  live 
Still  lovely  and  still  fugitive  ? 


z 


<£tjmfcurgt  SHtufcmsitg  Pregg: 

T.  AND  A.  CONSTABLE,  PRINTERS  TO  HER  MAJESTY. 


THE  WRITINGS  OF 


WILLIAM  WINTER 

IN 

THE  DAVID  DOUGLAS  SERIES 
of  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


In  One  Shilling  Volumes. 


I Volume , 270  pp.  Price  is. 

SHAKESPEARE’S  ENGLAND 


By  WILLIAM  WINTER. 


Contents. 


The  Voyage. 

The  Beauty  of  England. 
Great  Historic  Places. 
Rambles  in  London. 

A Visit  to  Windsor. 

The  Palace  of  Westminster. 
Warwick  and  Kenilworth. 
First  View  of  Stratford-on- 
Avon. 

London  Nooks  and  Comers. 
Relics  of  Lord  Byron. 
Westminster  Abbey. 

The  Home  of  Shakespeare. 


Up  to  London. 

Old  Churches  of  London. 
Literary  Shrines  of  London. 
A Haunt  of  Edmund  Kean. 
Stoke-Pogis  and  Thomas 
Gray. 

At  the  Grave  of  Coleridge. 
On  Barnet  Battle-field. 

A Glimpse  of  Canterbury. 
The  Shrines  of  Warwick- 
shire. 

A Borrower  of  the  Night. 


“He  offers  something  more  than  guidance  to  the 
American  traveller.  He  is  a convincing  and  eloquent 
interpreter  of  the  august  memories  and  venerable 
sanctities  of  the  old  country.” — Saturday  Review. 


“ Enthusiastic  and  yet  keenly  critical  notes  and 
comments  on  English  life  and  scenery.” — Scotsman. 


“The  book  is  delightful  reading.  . . . It  is  a 
delicious  view  of  England  which  this  poet  takes. 
It  is  indeed  the  noble,  hospitable,  merry,  romance- 
haunted  England  of  our  fathers— the  England  which 
we  know  of  in  song  and  story.”— Scribner's  Monthly. 


i Volume , 200  pp.  Price  is. 


WANDERERS 

Being  a Collection  of  the  Poems  of 

WILLIAM  WINTER. 


“The  verse  of  Mr.  Winter  is  dedicated  mainly  to 
love  and  wine,  to  flowers  and  birds  and  dreams, 
to  the  hackneyed  and  never-to-be-exhausted  reper- 
tory of  the  old  singers.  His  instincts  are  strongly 
conservative ; his  confessed  aim  is  to  belong  to  ‘ that 
old  school  of  English  Lyrical  Poetry,  of  which 
gentleness  is  the  soul  and  simplicity  the  garment.”' 
— Saturday  Review. 

“The  Poems  have  a singular  charm  in  their 
graceful  spontaneity." — Scots  Observer. 

“Free  from  cant  and  rant— clear  cut  as  a cameo, 
pellucid  as  a mountain-brook.  It  may  be  derided 
as  trite,  borne,  unimpassioned  ; but  in  its  own  modest 
sphere  it  is,  to  our  thinking,  extraordinarily  success- 
ful, and  satisfies  us  far  more  than  the  pretentious 
mouthing  which  receives  the  seal  of  over-hasty 
approbation.  "—Athenceum. 


i Volume , 353  pp.  Price  is. 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 

By  WILLIAM  WINTER. 


Contents. 


Classic  Shrines. 

Haunted  Glens  and  Houses. 
Old  York. 

The  Haunts  of  Moore. 
Beautiful  Bath. 

The  Lakes  and  Fells  of 
Wordsworth. 

Shakespeare  relics  at  Wor- 
cester. 

Byron  and  Hucknall  Torkard. 
Historic  Nooks  and  Comers. 
Shakespeare’s  Town. 

Up  and  Down  the  Avon. 
Rambles  in  Arden. 


The  Stratford  Fountain. 

Bos  worth  Field. 

The  Home  of  Dr.  J ohnson. 
From  London  to  Edin- 
burgh. 

Into  the  Highlands. 
Highland  Beauties. 

The  Heart  of  Scotland. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Elegiac  Memorials 
Scottish  Pictures. 

Imperial  Ruins. 

The  Land  of  Marmion. 

At  Vesper  Time. 


This  book,  which  is  intended  as  a companion  to 
Shakespeare’s  England , relates  to  the  gray  days  of 
an  American  wanderer  in  the  British  Islands,  and 
to  the  gold  of  thought  and  fancy  that  can  be  found 
there. 


Edinburgh  : DAVID  DOUGLAS,  10  Castle  Street 
New  York  : MACMILLAN  & CO. 


